Wasteland Legends: Missing in Action
by Alexeij
Summary: A Butcher's risen from the grave, searching for his past down a stolen road. The Traitor wanders from the East, a seed in his pocket and a monster in his head. The General tries to lead the NCR down the path of total supremacy, sweeping away all rivals. Roads intersect and flags are planted in the Mojave. The prize? The power to make the Wasteland bloom again. (AU; Canon-divergent)
1. Book I - 1) Ghost Town Showdown

**Book I - The Stolen Path**

 **Chapter 1) Ghost Town Showdown**

His first memory was pure, unrefined pain.

He shouted. Too many hands held him down, until the anesthetics put his muscles to sleep, clenching his throat shut. Inside, he stayed awake, vigilant in the delirium. A brain trapped in a jar that refused the respite of sensory deprivation.

They took his silence as their signal to proceed. Had his body answered to him, he'd have begged for mercy.

As it was, he felt every inch of the steel that carved his head open.

* * *

The first instinct past the haze was to punch the wizened face welcoming him back to the land of the living to the roar of vertibird blades.

A murderous headache splitting his skull open once more was his body's way of saying no. He lay staring, unable to turn his head. Not a vertibird. A spinning fan on a wooden ceiling, dry and eaten by time.

 _'Where am I?'_

"Hghmn?" he grunted eloquently. The man cleared his throat, bald, mustachioed head invading his view.

"I said I think you're past the worst," the old man said gently. Practiced fingers found his wrist, listening. The stethoscope was cool against his bare chest. "All this time, I wasn't sure you'd pull through. God above, I can hardly believe you survived the operation as it was, and that was weeks ago."

His throbbing, addled brain cranked to life like an old watch. Gears creaked as disused mechanisms tried to push them in motion, past the layers of rust.

 _'Weeks?'_

 _'Who's we?'_

 _'Where's my stuff?'_

Every time, he drew a complete blank.

His body tried to compensate for his mind's shortcomings. Leaden limbs stretched and pushed, kicking in the balls every instinct that urged him to avoid pain once more. His head, a whole different sentient being, made its displeasure known, loudly and painfully so.

He flopped back on the hard cushion, twitching in the throes of agony. The old doctor's hand helped him along, pressing on his left shoulder.

"Easy there, John Doe. I'm not looking forward to piecing you back together, when you crack your skull on the floor." Still pinning him to the bad with one hand - this old man! - the doctor flashed a small light into his eyes. He squinted. "Do you understand me? People don't survive what you went through, son. They simply don't. Now rest, and don't waste our local share of miracles."

' _John Doe? 'Is that me?'_

 _'_ What happened to me _'_ was the question on his lips, but said lips wouldn't cooperate. He added them to his mental list of treacherous, mutinous body parts as a syringe slipped into his right arm.

His last thought was how odd it was he couldn't feel the man's hand on his left shoulder. Then darkness claimed him.

* * *

The face in the mirror was that of a complete stranger. A stranger whose name he didn't remember.

How could Doc Mitchell - the wizened man usually at his bedside when he awoke - expect him to tell if he had done the good 'needlework' he claimed he had? Hadn't the past week proved his attempts wrong at every turn, no matter how many times the doc insisted he was recovering prodigiously fast?

All he could tell was that some bastard had used it for point-black target practice.

The scar was a long, jagged line along the left side of his head. The stitches had come off before he awoke, leaving it stubby to the touch where the scalpel had dug out the two bullets that robbed him of his identity. The doctor insisted most of the scar wasn't due to the trauma or his tools, however, but the product of some old knife wound, inflicted by a large, serrated blade. Old or new, the pain was only slightly below atrocious when he traced its bare outline: the short dark hair that covered the rest of his head like a mat refused to grow over it.

' _That's gray hair. How many years have I lost?'_

The lower half of his face mirrored the top, covered by weeks' worth of dark, bushy beard that parted only around the thin line of his mouth. Somewhere in between, pale skin and hollow brown eyes emerged from sunken orbits.

"Well?" Doc Mitchell asked behind the frame of the hand-held mirror, voice betraying his eagerness.

"Nothing."

"Nothing _?_ " the doctor echoed, brows arching. "Nothing stirs? No recollection, no odd sensation? Not even a name, a date?"

He shrugged, lowering the mirror on the living room's table between them. "Sorry to disappoint, doc. Seems the only name I have is the one you gave me. Does that make you my father?"

Doc Mitchell shifted uncomfortably in his stuffed armchair, shoulders drawing together. His eyes traveled to the spotless framed photo hanging on the patchwork wall. A young girl in a Vault suit smiled back from behind the polished glass.

"You had no document on you," the Doc said. "I simply didn't know what to call you. You needn't have taken it to heart."

John shrugged, letting his gaze travel across what he could see of the doctor's house. The dusted wooden surfaces and too extensive space for a single man were becoming increasingly familiar and constricting every morning. "It's catchy enough. Short. Easy to remember. Much better than calling myself Fritz, I'd say."

His right hand brushed absently along the length of the lean, shining compact rifle propped against his armchair. Some old instinct the bullets couldn't erase. Etched in small letters between the trigger and the case surrounding the microfusion breeder, was the name 'Fritz'.

A few days after he stepped out of the small ward in the back of the house, and only after the town of Goodsprings had a chance to take his measure, the doctor had placed the weapon in his hands. His eyes had sought and found the name without fault.

What did it mean? Was it a name, an acronym, some sort of identification? A hint to his past, _sure_ , but useless without framing. He didn't know any more than the doctor did, but the instinctual recognition was enough that he didn't allow it out of his sight at any time.

Two days later he had recollected what the rifle actually _was_ and exactly how it worked was even better news for him.

' _Hyperbreeder. What a mouthful.'_ The townspeople and the doctor probably thought it safe enough, without any ammo.

"Agreed," the Doc sighed. "I had hope for, well, something. Kept this trump card for last as the wily old man I am," he chuckled. He walked slowly into the adjacent kitchen, popping his back.

"Me too," John admitted, "but you demean yourself, Doc. If you were less of a good man, you'd be suspicious that my amnesia wiped out only my personal history."

"You don't know that," the Doc said. John heard the pouring of hot water into mugs; he imagined the doctor mixing a large spoonful of the mixed powder that made for a strong if bitter tea into each. "Might be you remember one of two things, or five. Sadly, my Vault needed a surgeon more than it needed a neurologist." The doctor walked back in, holding two steaming mugs. "We might never know."

John muttered a thank you and sipped his tea. Silence settled, neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. It was just there, a recurring presence in the last few days. He found his thoughts quickly shying away from the distress that resided in the whole concept of 'not-knowing oneself', and thus not properly existing. _'Damn books, that's what you get for snooping around.'_

He switched the mug gingerly from his right hand to his left.

All feeling had returned to the limb just as muscle memory started to reemerge, stirred by exercise after being dulled by weeks of lying in a coma. Things like fisting his left hand under his chin in thought, or scratching himself with the right. Then came reflexes, like bolting up and rolling away from his bed when some voice or steps he didn't recognize approached his door.

That was the day he met Sunny Smiles and her dog, Cheyenne. It was also the day he punched a hole in the bed and the four of them discovered something was wrong with his left arm.

The doc had run a battery of tests. He scraped off skin samples, but every time they flaked within minutes. More worrying still, they were replaced in moments, perfect down to body hair and skin tone.

Later, John himself spent hours later comparing the two limbs, touching and feeling, but on the outside, they were identical. Almost too identical.

At John's assent, Doc Mitchell had blunted his sharpest scalpel, but couldn't cut through any muscle. When he was done, John folded the metal tool into a loop, just with two fingers.

When the next morning, Mayor Trudy had come up to the doc's house to get her radio repaired and didn't mention a word of it, John figured that neither Doc Mitchell nor Sunny had talked about it to the town. Even as he fixed it for her, glad for anything to distract him, that still baffled John.

Then he noticed how the Doc always measured his words around him, how his shoulders tensed when they were in the same room, and how he always kept his 10mm at his hip.

That was how John learned to recognize fear.

The front door creaked open, bringing him back to the present. He behaved as two sets of steps, one padded and one less, approached. No grabbing at Fritz like he was deep in enemy territory this time.

How he knew what he would automatically behave like in enemy territory, he didn't have the foggiest.

To no avail, however. Cheyenne was still giving him the stink eye.

"Hey, Doc! I've got your steaks," Sunny Smiles greeted, true to her name and shaking her red hair to get rid of the outside dirt, not unlike her dog would do. She noticed Cheyenne's change of attitude and then him.

"John, you're awake! And not punching!" Her smile didn't falter, and he was grateful for that, but it was hard to keep the frown away from his face. There was no missing the heavy bags under her eyes, nor how waxy her skin looked under the tan of a desert hunter.

"Hello, Sunny. Fancy some tea?" He offered and chuckled when she scrunched her nose in distaste and glared.

"Choke on it for me, please." She dropped her backpack on the table and fished out a bound package smelling of juicy meat. "Fresh from the pen, Doc. _Someone_ oughta be grateful for all your hard work."

Doc Mitchell thanked her and took the package to his fridge after a curious peer inside. "Why don't you lie down? You look like you're about to fall over where you stand."

As if the coercive authority of his full doctor tone wasn't enough, a large yawn cut off Sunny's excuse. She looked longingly at the vacant sofa.

"Oh, why not? It's not like I'm going to crawl back home anytime soon."

She unslung her rifle and dropped face first onto the sofa, stretching like a cat, her sigh of relief muffled by the cushion in her face. Cheyenne cast a wary glance at John, then sprawled in a circle at her feet, turning her muzzle in his direction and closing her eyes.

"Nice try, girl," he teased. "Won't fool me this time."

"Don't provoke the dog, John," Sunny groaned, righting herself and sheepishly accepting a mug of cactus juice from the Doc. As she sipped the fresh drink, she looked no older than the girl in the Doc's photo, despite her claims of being a few years over twenty.

"So, what's new in town?" John asked.

"Nothing - and that's not a good thing. Chet's still an ass, the road's closed, and there aren't enough people to keep watch and clear the critters from the pumps at the same time." She pointed an accusing finger at him, pursing her lips. "Cheyenne and I are overworked while you loaf around all day here at the Doc's. At least the Divide isn't blowing hell on us."

He took it in kind. Sunny was like that. Honest. Blunt. Tired. Apparently not afraid of him. "I figured between you, the Doc, and Trudy, I'd be lending a hand by now. It's not like I'm shackled up to my bed or anything anyway. What's taking so long?"

"You, John," Doc Mitchell said. He winced and rubbed his temples against what looked like a building headache. John couldsympathize.

"No offense, but Victor carries you in the one night gunfire keeps everyone on their toes, two bullets in your head and that high-tech rifle of yours. Next thing we know, the road between here and Jean's Sky Diving is littered with half the Great Khans that passed through the day before. Many people think you're Brotherhood, and really, we've got enough trouble as it is with the convicts without adding the NCR."

"So, Chet and the others fear that – the Khans, the NCR, take your pick - will retaliate for helping me?" He sighed and leaned back heavily. "Next, he'll blame me for the deathclaws and devil knows what at Quarry Junction."

"Don't let him hear that," Sunny scoffed. "You'll tempt him. Little greedy hypocrite. He was the first out there emptying pockets and the last doubling over a shovel. And all he's doing now is fearmongering and stopping you from taking some of my shifts."

"Now I'm flattered. Not every day someone argues my case so passionately."

Sunny flipped him the bird. "Could be the first for all you know." She froze after the last word left her lips. He waved her off, burying a spike of annoyance. He didn't like it, but it was true.

"Don't sweat it. Being amnesiac has its ups too."

"Yeah. Don't want to hear that." She picked up her rifle, tugging half-heartedly at the bolt. " Sorry. It's been a long night. Cobb shouted his lungs out the first half, and Cheyenne barked at critters for the rest of it." The dog perked up at her name. Sunny fondly scratched her behind the ears. "Scared the living lights out of them too. Good girl. Now, _of course_ , my varmint's jammed. If there's a God out there, Pete will be at the bar and not too cranky to have a look at it."

He let her talk. Doc Mitchell was paging through a book, keeping only a half ear to the conversation, but he looked more than ready to doze into it than read it. The old doctor was sturdy for his age, but he was also well past his seventies, and John figured the excitement of the last few weeks wasn't part of his usual routine. Either that, or his medicine cabinet was always that empty. The skin on his forehead was stretched tight, his cheeks sunken, and his hooded eyes spoke of sleepless nights and a heavy weight on his shoulders.

Not for the first time since he'd awoken, John felt a weight that had nothing to do with physical pain settling on his chest, pressing down on his ribcage. It was an odd sensation, one he couldn't wrap his head around.

These people – Doc Mitchell, Sunny, Trudy and the rest of Goodsprings' citizens – they brought him back from the brink of death, and asked for nothing in return but the time to decide if he was trustworthy. Some of them, like Sunny, already had.

The word, _trust_ , sounded alien to his mind.

He couldn't find it in himself to resent them, though, no matter how much the prolonged wait made him want to punch through a wall, or how his pockets were curiously empty of any money or bottlecaps. What little he knew of his past-self suggested that he would have done the same, at the very least.

Judging by the number of graves Sunny said they dug for the dead Great Khans, probably worse.

Suddenly, the walls surrounding him seemed to bend and converge on him, trying to strangle him.

 _'I need to get out of here.'_

John forced a breath down his lungs. "No need to ruffle Easy Pete. Let me have a look. Then I'm taking breath of fresh air."

* * *

The harsh desert sun blinded John for a full minute, leaving spots dancing in his vision. The air was dry, scorching, and the breeze carried dirt and dust rather than relief. The heat on his skin, the sweat already gathering on his forehead and neck weren't pleasant, but nor were they strange. He took comfort in that notion.

The wasteland welcomed him, harsh and unforgiving as it was. He preferred it ten times over the oppressive comforts of the Doc's house.

From the low hill, he enjoyed a clear view of Goodsprings. Two dozen houses in various states of disrepair clustered on each side of two roads of cracked asphalt. Brahmin lumbered in their corrals, the two-headed beasts oblivious and uncaring of everything around them. Small gardens dotted with hardy wasteland vegetables separated each building from the next.

Sunny poked him on the shoulder, interrupting his exploring spree. "It's not much, true, but it's home. Anyway, you're looking in the wrong direction. The local Strip is that way."

Following her pointed finger, he made out two wide, one-story buildings squatted at the foot of the tallest hill around, the slope dotted with the odd cactus tree. No signs creaked on their hinges in the morning breeze: tall, faded letters identified both the general store and the Prospector's Saloon, though the latter was made more personable by the mismatched collection of neon signs composing the last word.

"Victor found you atop the hill. See? If you squint, you can see the first tombstones and the broken fence."

He didn't need to squint his eyes, but he did so anyway. "I see a fair deal of bloatflies buzzing around too."

"Must be all the blood you lost and the fresh graves." She grimaced and scratched Cheyenne behind her doggy ears. "I'll add them to the list. At least it's not something bigger, or more _poisonous_."

"Wildlife's quite lively?"

"You tell me. I'm the one on patrol every other day. Quarry Junction isn't that far off, you know? On a clear day, you can see radscorpions and cazadores aplenty from the hill, buzzing and fighting in the valley below. They tend to skirt Goodsprings though. Pete says it's because of all the dynamite they used to dig the mine."

"Maybe they'll pay Cobb a visit."

Sunny chuckled and started down the path, "Ah. Would that they do!"

He tipped the visor of his cowboy hat lower against the morning sun and followed. She led him down the other side of the hill, past a run-down Poseidon energy station that offered its shadow to a packed Brahmin.

"The trader, Ringo. Is he still holing up?"

"You're one to talk," she sniped back. "Yeah, poked his head out once two days ago. Jittery guy, but smart enough to avoid the general store and jingle his caps at Trudy."

"It's not like those Gangers would leave the town alone even if Chet handed them Ringo nicely wrapped up. The NCR correctional facility is what? Thirty miles south of here?"

"And how would you know?"

John tapped the map hanging from his belt he had worked on over the past few days with Doc Mitchell.

"Yeah, pretty much. I knew it was only a matter of time when news of the escape spread, but with I-15 closed off and McCarran one big nest of deathclaws away, they've become bold."

"Then why don't you leave? Doc told me this was a mining town years back, but the vein's long since dried up." Sunny shook her head, but he persisted. He might not remember owning a house or the sense of belonging somewhere, but logic and pragmatism were bulletproof, it seemed.

"You've nothing keeping you here but what? Affection and habit? Until whoever's in charge deals with the deathclaws, you can forget travelers to the Strip and caravans. Primm's a day away, and further south there's Nipton and the NCR Outpost."

"Looks like you've got it all figured out already," said Sunny, spinning on her heel and planting her palms on her hips. She was forced to look up at him, but her scowl was fierce. "Look, John, you seem like a nice guy, and I appreciate what you're trying to do. And yeah, you may be right on some of it. Point is, Goodsprings is home. Not habit and affection. _Home._ You don't abandon home just like that." Her expression softened, and she brushed away a wild lock of red hair.

"To me, it's all I've known my whole life. My parents rest three stones down where Vic found you. Pete busted his back in the mine and making the houses livable when they first settled. Some of us can't just pack up and _leave_ because some raider in blues got it in their heads they like our spot."

He let her words and the emotions on display on her face soak in. Pride. Fear. Anger. He knew the names, how to recognize those three. He tried to imagine himself in her situation, to _sympathize_ , pitted against unfavorable odds to defend a place and people he held dear, but once more drew a blank. The most he got was a faint sense of distress as he pictured his conjured-up home burning around him, faceless people dead at his feet.

The mental projection spiraled out of control. Dark. Blood. Pain. A chuckle. Black and white. A glint. Two gunshots.

He felt Sunny shaking him; the tarmac scratched his palms and knees through the fabric of his trousers. His breath came in quick, ragged gasps. The world spun and the metallic smell of blood filled his nostrils. And Sunny shouting in his ear was not helping with his pounding headache. Not one bit.

"… back to the Doc's. You need to lie down!"

"No time to lie down," he grunted back but accepted Sunny's lift. She hauled him back onto his feet with surprising strength, making his head spin once more before the world returned to focus. He swiped his right hand across his face, frowning. No blood.

Sunny steadied him, bemused. Even Cheyenne spared him the doggie equivalent of a worried but unimpressed glance. He took a couple of tentative steps, found his legs could hold his weight and pushed himself off Sunny.

"I think... I think just remembered something important."

"Really? What's that?"

"Don't know for sure yet, but… it rings a bell with something Trudy said when I checked her radio. A man in a checkered suit, passed through a couple of days 'fore Victor found me in the graveyard?"

Sunny looked thoughtful for a moment, still searching him for any sign he might topple over any moment, then her eyes narrowed. "Sleek and greasy. Pretty city boy face. Two burly bodyguards. Same suit?"

"Wouldn't know about his pretty face, but that's the one." He exhaled. "Chet'll have to wait."

Cheyenne barked in approval. "What's with the sudden curiosity now? You know him? Is that it?"

He shook his head and touched the scar across his temple. Real and ghost pain mixed together. "I think he might be the one who shot me."

* * *

Trudy had precious little to add. No name, no precise direction, no association. Probably a Strip boy, but the stingy kind. Checkered suit. Ungodly amounts of hair lotion for the desert. A silver-plated zippo.

Chet 'knew' a lot of things, though. Worse for John, he had no qualms announcing them to the town at large from the patio of the Prospector. No early drink in his hands to dismiss his words as drunken ramblings either.

"I know you're one of those Brotherhood folks, 'John Doe'. Your kind is not welcome here, nor anywhere else in the Mojave." He spat a glob at his feet, his breath reeking of tobacco. "We wasted tons of meds on your sorry ass, asked for nothing back, and you can't bother to wait for the community to decide 'bout you. Here you are, prancing and strutting as you like. Well then, fuck off. To the road with you, and I might not inform the next NCR patrol your terrorist ass passed by."

John eyed the 9mm on Chet's belt and the similar weaponry carried by the townsfolk training the ugliest looks at him.

' _Three total. Small arms, speed on the draw. Elbow to throat, knife between ribs, duck behind motorcycle. Two shots at center mass.'_

Before he even realized he was assessing and weighing the rest of the people around him – Sunny and Trudy included – as possible threats and collateral damage, a boxy robot in blue rolled around the Prospector's corner closest to the graveyard hill, its prodigious bulk balancing with the precision of squeaking machinery over a single worn wheel.

The cartoonish cowboy on the screen flickered with static. "Skedaddle, folks! That's one mighty group of bad eggs comin' up the road, armed and primped. Will be on us 'fore we say _Sarsparilla_ , right quick!"

John was the first to act as panic ensued. Chet disappeared inside his shop at the word 'armed'. People started running for their houses or checking their sidearms for ammo. An elderly couple hurried to the brahmin's pen as fast as their legs would carry them and soon were struggling with the lumbering beasts that refused the gift of freedom.

He marched up to the windblown Securitron. As with Fritz, the word was there when he searched for it, as were _schematics_.

' _9mm_ _Gatlings. Pneumatic claws. Alloy casing. Those shoulder pads hold enough space for micro-missiles, or maybe additional ammo storage. Holy hell, it's a fuckin' war machine!'_

His heart was pumping faster with the first infusion of adrenaline; a strange eagerness coursed through his convalescent body, brushing away the lingering ailments. His mind cleared, the headache forgotten.

"Victor. Cut the bullshit. How far and how many?"

"Oh, howdy pardner?" The cowboy eyes were two black, fixed pixels, but John focused on the camera lenses just above the screen. He could swear he felt them whirr and zoom on him. One of the claws reached up to tap the rim of an imaginary hat in an all-too-human gesture. "A good dozen strong, the rascals are. They were leavin' Jean's when I rolled down the hill."

' _Map. Remember. That's some six miles away, give or take. At a run, half an hour at least, and they won't be fresh. One hour and something if walking fast. Ought to know the town would have lookouts. Plenty of time in either case.'_

John grabbed Sunny by one arm and Trudy by the other, careful with his grip. The younger woman was clutching her Varmint, her jaw set and teeth grinding. The elder one was shouting over the small crowd, pawing at people, trying to restore order and herd the stampede.

Both turned to regard him with eyes full of determination and a wince in Trudy's case. They'd wrestled down the worms of doubt and despair that took hold over the rest of Goodsprings. He took the Varmint from the redhead's hands and shot three times into the ground.

' _Now they ought to speed up if Cobb is half worth his threats.'_

People stopped, turned and watched, wide-eyed. He took them in: most past their forties, the elderly couple, a young family with their child. All that remained of a town slowly choked by the wasteland.

"Victor was exaggerating. There's only a dozen of them, some five miles away by now. They are underestimating you, think you will all cower and tremble like Chet there." He pushed the Varmint back into Sunny's hands, ignoring her stupefied expression, and unslung Fritz from his back. The hyperbreeder felt right in his hands.

"We'll capitalize on that, and they'll pay for it. Gather what weapons you have and hide on the roofs, behind the windows. We'll lure them into a kill zone, and that will be it."

"And who the hell are ye to order us about?"

"Wish I knew. Right now, the only one with a working head on his shoulders, it seems." He walked up to the man who had piped up, the burly arms of a farmer with a scorched face of someone who spent a lot of years in the desert sun and hands as big as plates. They were of the same height, but the farmer had at least two stones on the still recovering amnesiac. John glared at him right in the eye, then grabbed the larger man by his shirt with his left arm and pulled.

The farmer's feet left the ground.

"Do as I say, and live. Or wait for them to come and gut you in your home. Choice's yours."

Silence ensued. John let the man go with a shove, and turned to regard the small crowd. Only the elderly couple was absent, still struggling with their brahmins. A little up the hill, he could make out a silhouette standing in the door leading into the gas station.

"I'll say it again. Gather your weapons and what armor you have. Best sharpshooters on the Prospector's roof and the shop's. Stay low. Not you, Sunny," he said, shaking his head at the redhead. She scowled, but he was already speaking again, a plan quickly shaping up in his head.

"Pete, any dynamite you've left from the mine, bring it out. I'll need all you can get. Those who cannot fight, head to Doc Mitchell's house and stay there until it's over."

The white-bearded cowboy hesitated, suspicion darkening his leathery face, then nodded gruffly and trotted down the road, mumbling to himself. John turned to the Securitron. "Victor, break down the store's back door. Chet's storeroom should be stacked with the Khan's equipment and ammo. No reason to let those go to waste."

"Right away pardner! I like the way you work. It's gonna be one helluva shootout."

"Everyone stock up and get into position! Keep low and wait for the gangers to be out in the open. Trudy, you'll take the first shot. Make sure you have a clean line of fire on this road."

"I hope you know what you're doing," said Trudy, checking the slug into her shotgun, "or I don't think we'll see sundown."

John nodded. She left, narrowing her eyes at the Securitron tearing down the sturdy wooden door with offending ease. John smiled as enraged and then fearful shouts came from inside, letting some of the eagerness and excitement he felt slip through the hard façade he'd kept up so far to deal with the unruly crowd.

Was this blood-thirstiness? John didn't know, but he guessed it couldn't be only that. It didn't feel wrong, like the Doc's personality tests heavily hinted at. The only word he could point his mental finger to was _natural_ , like slipping an old glove on and finding it still fit you perfectly.

Question was, how old was the glove? For all he knew, the dead Great Khans on the road to Goodsprings were probably his handiwork.

' _Who the fuck was I before the checkered suit shot me?'_

The answer was another blank draw, then a very annoyed Sunny Smiles commandeered his attention, her trademark expression nowhere to be seen.

"What're you keeping me around for? My place is on that roof with the others."

He looked at her. She was vibrating with tension and expectation, adrenaline surging already. At her side, Cheyenne growled ominously, sensing the tension in the air.

John felt his grin widen when he spotted Pete over her shoulder, bundles of dynamite in his arms. Sunny arched an eyebrow at him, and he pointed at the road Joe Cobb and his Powder Gangers would come up from in less than twenty minutes at the earliest.

"Know a good spot for an ambush?"

* * *

John flattened on his belly atop the outcrop and listened to the band of Powder Gangers passing not thirty meters away from him, trading jokes but raising far less of a ruckus than he'd have expected after their nightly rounds of threats and bellowing.

Silently, he chided himself for his hubris. His amnesia only felt like half of an excuse.

' _These convicts blew up half a prison and the whole garrison to escape. An NCR garrison. Soldiers. Trained soldiers at that.'_

So, _of course_ , where Sunny had told him to expect the usual miscellanea of pilfered gear raiders usually possessed – sidearms, baseball bats, the odd trail shotgun or hunting rifle – they were treated with fucking military equipment.

The binoculars had revealed a dreadful loadout and a steep decrease in their odds. At least half the Gangers carried M16A1 service rifles, the kind he somehow knew was standard fare for NCR troopers. Then there were SMGs, both 9mm and 10mm. Joe Cobb himself holstered a .44 Magnum Revolver at his hip. That one could punch through the walls of the saloon by itself and ruin whoever hid behind it.

And of course, dynamite. _Everyone_ carried dynamite sticks in the loops of their belts.

' _Thank God at least they don't seem too eager to wear their jailor's armor.'_ He had spotted only two of the bulletproof Kevlar vests with 'NCRCF' stenciled on the chest, and only one intrepid soul wore the top half of a painted NCR trooper uniform under the sweltering sun.

Most of the information spontaneously popped up after a brief glance, detailed and comprising of ammo, rate of fire and possible variants. Sunny wasn't eager to leave all the action to him but agreed after a muttered, tense exchange to go back with Cheyenne and warn the defenders of the unexpected turn of events. Which, he felt with an utter certainty he couldn't explain completely, he _should_ have predicted!

John pressed his cheek against the ground and focused on the steps a little ways ahead, holding his breath as the last one passed by his position. His left arm held the five sticks Pete spared him, wrapped together with a roll of industrial tape he found in Chet's storeroom. The custom 10mm he gripped in the other hand.

' _Now.'_ He lifted himself into a crouch and at the same time lobbed the dynamite bundle in a short arch. It struck the third to last Ganger in the shoulder and the man let out a small cry of surprise that had the rest reach for their weapons.

The bundle hit the ground and the Gangers turned around. John cocked the hammer and lined the shot through the reflex sight.

It detonated before he could pull the trigger. The sound deafened him a split second ahead of the shockwave that rammed into his chest, sending him staggering back onto his ass. Two smaller explosions followed the first as some of the sticks the Gangers carried destabilized, caught in a chain reaction. Dirt and gravel battered his face and a dust cloud rose around and over the shouting gangers.

John barely noticed the crater as he stumbled on his feet and took off at a run, sliding down the outcrop and up another slope, coasting up the road towards Goodsprings. He passed the stripped skeletons of houses and only stopped to catch his breath at the edge of town.

That was the crucial part: too close, and he'd be a sitting duck. Too far, they wouldn't spot him and give chase.

He forced his legs into another sprint, holstering the 10mm and grabbing at Fritz hanging from his shoulder by a leather strap. Nausea threatened to double him over again but John ignored his body's complaints and pushed harder, grateful for every second the dynamite earned him to reach the next station.

The first bullets whizzed past him as he ducked under the old water tower, sliding behind one of the metal pillars. Five gangers were advancing up the road, blood splattered on their faces or seeping from wounds where gravel on the road turned into shrapnel. Behind them, John could make out other figures staggering out of the fading dust cloud.

' _Damn. Still too many.'_

Fritz spewed one laser beam after the other. The first went wide as the target ducked behind a rock. A split-second later, the bold convict donning the trooper armor let out a short cry and doubled over, hands on the blackened scorch mark on his belly. John rolled behind another pillar and blasted a third one in the chest when he rose from cover. John threw another stick, but the dynamite exploded a few seconds too early, leaving him blinking against the screech in his ears.

' _Damn short fuses.'_

Submachinegun fire peppered his position, rattling the pillar. John hissed as lead grazed his arm and then his shin, then bolted away as the shooter stopped to reload. He turned sharply to the left around the nearest corner and sent two more blasts in the gangers' general direction.

His left hand searched the small heap of rubbish at his feet and closed around a shortened fuse. He grinned, sending a silent thank you to Easy Pete and another prayer that this one wouldn't blow early in his face.

The Gangers advanced and John ducked low as shots punched through the old wood, close enough to kiss his brow. Pete's spare zippo produced a flame on the second try, and John counted up to three before he tossed the bundle at the foot of the water tower and dashed in the opposite direction, vaulting over a fence and mercilessly curb-stomping through someone's garden.

The explosion rattled his teeth and shredded an entire section of the house, but the screeching of rent metal and the cries of alarm were music to his ears. The water tower buckled on its last remaining pillar and came crashing down. The ground rumbled under his feet on impact.

John hoped the wet squelch he heard in the cacophony wasn't just a product of his imagination. He circled around the next house and ran halfway back to the main road, his sole company for a long, blissful moment the thunderous beating of his heart and the burning ache in his legs.

Then curses, shouts, and coughing filled his ears.

"Look alive, ya slugs! I want that bastard's head! That fucker is toyin' with us: the worms lacked the balls to face us and called in some hired gun!"

"Cobb-"

"Shut yer trap, Goldstein! We move up to the saloon and rain lead on everythin' that moves. I want this fuckin' shit-stain of a town razed by nightfall! 'round this scrap, now!"

Feet crunched splintered asphalt and more voices cursed. John bolted for the back of the adjacent house, rounded the corner and crouched, leveling Fritz at the Powder Gangers' path, muzzle poking out between a broken section of fence.

They had other plans. John cursed as dynamite sticks sailed high in every direction, long fuses burning, and was already scrambling away when one landed not two meters away from where he lay in ambush. Half a dozen isolated explosions cracked the air and ripped houses apart, turning the small alleys between the abodes into a hail of shrapnel.

John covered his face with his left arm and threw himself through the nearest window as the stick behind him detonated. He landed into an affront to all rolls and the edge of a table drove the breath from his chest before crashing under his weight. He felt at least two ribs crack and managed only a gulp of smoky air that sent him into a coughing fit before he struggled to his feet and barged through the nearest door deeper into the house, Fritz slapping against his side.

He crashed through the nearest window as the roof above his head shattered under another explosion. Prone on the ground, glass digging into his forearms, the world diminished to indistinctive ringing and the pounding pain in his head. The ground against his cheek rumbled and grumbled time and again, threatening to crack and swallow him whole until he was freezing in Cocytus.

' _Must have cracked my head, again, to start thinking in literary terms.'_

The numbness subsided, and John tasted dirt and blood in his mouth. Levering on his left arm, he lifted on his knees and retched violently, splashing his breeches with bile and what remained of his breakfast. His sense of smell returned next, and he wished it had not. Blearily, he craned his neck to the side and froze.

Smoke rose from the odd fire, but through the broken shell of the house the gangers demolished on him, he had a clear view on the main avenue.

The Prospector's façade had simply ceased to exist.

Clarity returned with the impetus of a battering ram, worse than any headache. With it came the gunfight, the loud bark of service rifles drowned by the alternate boom of shotguns. A silhouette stumbled and fell from the store's roof, but a billow of smoke hid it from sight before he could focus.

Adrenaline rushed through his veins by the bucketload. He was on his feet, deaf to the pain in his chest and legs. He ran, fingers flipping a small switch on the side of his rifle. Fritz hummed to life in his hands in response. Another explosion drowned the gunfire, beating on his eardrums, and then he was charging into the main avenue.

John jumped over the corpse of a ganger and leveled the energy rifle at the nearest figure in convict blues. There was no recoil, barely any aim. With a hiss, three laser beams burned through the Ganger's flesh, melting cloth, muscle, and bone together, fusing his hand to the grip of his rifle.

Four more convicts crouched behind the bulk of rusted cars and boulders in a rough semicircle around Goodsprings' defenders. Dynamite had wrecked both buildings, caving the saloon's roof in, and two bodies were sprawled on the street. Then the two closest Gangers noticed him and the flash of laser fire, but he was already upon the first by the time their rifles were trained on him.

He bashed the muzzle pointed at his chest aside with Fritz and pummeled the Ganger's face with his left fist. It caved in with barely any resistance, bone giving way to cybernetic strength, and the neck snapped back with a loud crack. A wordless cry of alarm was followed by automatic fire, but John dropped with the body and pulled the trigger one-handed through the red mist as bullets tore through the corpse. Once. Twice. The hyperbreeder hissed.

The convict disintegrated into smoldering ashes. Behind him, one of the remaining duo stared slack-jawed before survival instinct kicked in and he started running backward, spraying the whole area with lead from his SMG. John rolled away behind the very rusted car the dead gangers used as cover, but his eyes never left the other man now beating a hasty retreat.

Joe Cobb's flight was cut short by a bullet through the thigh before he could take ten steps. The last convict hesitated and paid for it: the man screamed and fell on his knees as a single laser beam burned through his chest.

"John? Oh fuck, you're alive."

Sunny leaned against the only chunk of the Prospector's façade still standing. Her armor was torn and smudged in blood and soot like the rest of her, even the bandage wrapped hastily around her head. He felt the weight of her bloodshot eyes as he stalked up to Joe Cobb. Nobody else moved inside the Saloon.

The ganger lieutenant's mouth ran the miles his legs couldn't.

"Ya don't know who yer fuckin' with! The Powder Gang rules this slice of the Mojave! No Legion, no goddamned NCR, only Powder Gangers! Ya shoot me and every fuckin' gun this side of Black Mountain will be out for your head, ya hear me you fuckin' piece of –"

The threats dissolved into a gurgle as Fritz charred a hole through his throat. He thrashed for a few moments, eyes rolling up, before going still. Blood in his ears, John straddled the corpse and began wailing on him with both hands.

A minute later he was panting, his hand throbbing, but he felt the anger ebb away. It didn't disappear, but it lost its edge and retreated under the surface, festering and boiling. Thoughts of a bastard in a checkered suit flowed freely.

' _You're up next. Soon, very soon_ _.'_

* * *

Squashing bloatflies and digging graves was nothing short of torture, but John welcomed the menial, manual work of attacking the hard-packed ground with a shovel. Half a stimpak mended his ribs, the other half his hand. Bandages took care of the scrapes and cuts. He flat-out refused the med-x though.

"This has nothing on your scalpel, Doc."

The digging took him the best part of the afternoon. At sunset, Doc Mitchell gathered the survivors to officiate the rites.

Trudy was laid to rest beside her parents and her stillborn son. The damage of the explosion and subsequent cave-in had disfigured the mayor beyond recognition; John helped Sunny wrap her into some spare sheets before they hauled the body up the hill.

Easy Pete had long since reserved a place beside his wife and John dug within the outline of white stones. Sunny nailed his cowboy hat and handkerchief to the rough cross they made from the rubble in the saloon. The two Brahmin elders spoke briefly of him, more concerned with the little girl between them, staring at the bundles that were her parents' bodies with blank-eyed emptiness.

Four more graves he dug, but Doc Mitchell only spoke the words once, thrusting their souls in God's care. A few words were spared even on Chet, who everyone agreed was a greedy, two-faced son of a whore, but nonetheless part of the small world that had been Goodsprings.

John found Sunny much later, nursing a pilfered bottle of moonshine as she stared at a nameless tomb marked only by the two crossed, broken halves of her Varmint rifle driven deep into the freshly moved earth. He sat beside her and accepted the bottle when she offered it without a word, then passed it back. The moonshine burned harshly in his mouth, covering the bile and blood, and John welcomed the distraction for a moment.

"Thank you, John," she said, words only slightly slurred. "For digging it."

"It was the least I could do for Cheyenne. She was a good dog."

"The best," she agreed, nodding at the metal cross. "You two didn't hit it off with the right foot, but she'd have won you over soon enough."

"Mh, no doubt. I'm a sucker for puppy eyes."

"Cheyenne didn't do _puppy eyes_!" Sunny scoffed indignantly. "She barked and pawed at you, or tore out a gecko's throat when she was having a bad day. Bossy girl."

The silence stretched between them as the night descended. In the distance, the glow of neon on New Vegas's skyline struck out like a sore eye under the canopy of stars.

' _Where do Securitrons go?'_

"How's Ringo?" Sunny asked, stretching her legs. The empty bottle clinked against a rock and rolled away.

"Doc's positive he'll live. The bullet passed through without nicking the bone. Blood loss's the main issue there." He produced a small flask of whiskey and took a long swig, pressing it into her outstretched hand a moment later. "Mentally, he's a wreck: thinks everything happened because of him."

"You didn't tell him otherwise? Nip it in the bud? Bash him in the head, blunt as you are?"

"Thanks. And yes, I tried, minus the bashing. I don't think I made a headway, though. He kept promising he'd 'set things right' once back at the Crimson Caravan. "

"Please," she scoffed again. "As if their kind could do shit when guns are out blazing. Talk caps and rob you blind: that's all they're good for. Like so many Chets, they think money can solve everything then bang, they're fertilizer. I wonder if their personal hell is some kind of hippie commune where riches are banned or something."

"I wonder if there's a hell out there I can throw Victor in. Shooting its cowboy face to pieces doesn't seem enough."

Sunny nodded. She had barely washed the dirt and blood from her face and hands after they finished stacking the ganger's bodies into the general store cellar, yet thin, dried up lines cut through her smudged cheeks. John hadn't seen her cry, but he also knew she'd stayed an awfully long time at the nearest pump for the results she got.

Her eyes weren't free of tears now. They shone in the moonlight and reflected the same anger John felt; if not for it the raw, oppressive weight on his chest trying to suffocate him would succeed.

"If there isn't, I'll make one for the bastard. Custom built." She hugged her knees, squeezing until her knuckles turned bone white, yet failed to stop the tremble in her shoulders. "Trudy, Pete and the others would still be alive if it didn't roll away at first sign of trouble. Tin can packs a hell of a punch. Would have mowed Cobb and his cronies down and instead left us all to die. It shot Pete when he tried to stop it, goddamn it!"

Sunny's curse echoed in the night and John placed his right hand on her shoulder. Not to calm her - he discovered soon after awaking that he disliked hypocrites – but to show support, union of intent. _Sympathy_.

' _List of bastards that ought to die horribly just got a bit longer.'_

Later, she dumped a few buckets of water over her head. Then they searched for a deserted house and climbed into bed. Together.

* * *

 _AN:_ _I've stretched some distances and shortened others as I saw fit. Also, yeah, John Doe has no Pip-Boy. It was no mistake._

 _Fallout belongs to Bethesda, blah blah blah, if I had the money I'd totally buy the rights, yadda yadda, come and get me you lousy Feds!_

 _ **Edit (13/04/17):**_ _My thanks to_ _ **Excisium**_ _for the thorough editing._

 ** _Edit (02/04/18):_** _April is editing time! This time, **PartyPat22** comes to the rescue._


	2. 2) That Night in Budget Vegas

**Chapter 2: That Night in Budget Vegas**

The caravan headed south shortly after dawn.

Ringo's brahmin and one of the stubborn ones in the corral were packed full of supplies and anything of use or value they retrieved from the general store, the Prospector, and from the dead Gangers too. Sunny called dibs on Cobb's revolver and hung it from her belt opposite to Easy Pete's.

By the time they got moving, everyone carried a rifle or submachine gun, even the elderly couple, and more were heaped upon the rear brahmin.

"This is not goodbye, Martha," Doc Mitchell whispered. The breeze carried the words to John; the doctor looked all his years and more as he cast one long look at the town, lingering on the top of the hill, then at the faded photograph in his hand. When they met each other's gaze, Doc Mitchell frowned, then nodded slowly and joined the caravan, sliding beside the hobbling Ringo and the blank-faced orphan he was distracting with a story.

John brought up the rear while Sunny, more familiar with the road, lead, looking everywhere but at the empty spot at her side. He tried not to put too much weight on the past night's gymnastics. After all, he ought to have had intercourse with at least one woman in the past thirty-and-some years now wiped clean from his mind.

It had been an awkward first few minutes, though. His body was eager enough, but his mind kept reeling, pulling at strings with nothing attached. In the end, he simply stopped thinking and let himself go.

First time or not, he _had_ been Sunny's first, but past the initial unease and confusion there had been little in the way of sweet words, or blushing confessions in the morning.

They coupled, yes. Several times at that. To forget and celebrate life, to drain the frustration, the anger and grief – in her case – the day's events left them with, in an effort to stop going mad over what happened until time intervened and the wounds would start to scab over.

It wasn't gentle, and he could feel the scratches her broken nails left on his back chafing under his shirt long after they'd healed over. In some ways, he had given up to baser, more animalistic instincts, but John had never felt more human since he woke up a week prior.

They stopped at the first well to refill their canteens and water the pack brahmins. Sunny said nothing, picked up her new rifle and meandered up a nearby path, soon disappearing from view. After a few minutes, the echo of gunshots carried to the caravan, intermixed by screeching and bestial hissing.

John traded a look with Doc Mitchell, Ringo, and Sean, the elderly brahmin breeder. The man's wife soothed the sobbing, orphaned girl whose name he had yet to learn.

He quickly averted his gaze and stared stiffly ahead when the pressure in his chest awoke with a vengeance.

"Dynamite knocked a few screws loose in her head," Sean declared, keeping his rifle at the ready. "That ruckus'll draw every gecko for miles." John glared at him, but the old man remained completely unapologetic, beady eyes checking their surrounding for threats.

"I didn't see any yesterday, and this is nothing in comparison."

"Yesterday, there's dynamite flyin'," the old man bit out. "Geckos ain't no bleedin' deathclaws, boy. Still belong to this half of creatures that recognize trouble and don't dive head-first into it. I think the girl might've jumped that fence."

John didn't know what to answer to that and settled into an uneasy vigil atop a small rise. Half an hour later, Sunny plodded into view, a duffel bag oozing blood on one shoulder.

"Hunted lunch and dinner," she announced as a way of greeting, showing her bloody prize of chunks and slices of dripping gecko meat. "Left the hide behind," she told John, "no one'll buy it in Primm, the hills behind the town are crawling with the critters. Got no time to work it either."

"You did well Sunny," Doc Mitchell said slowly as John moved to help her secure the duffel onto a brahmin. The beasts huffed at the scent of fresh blood but didn't start away. "We'd better save our food as long as possible. You never know what might happen out here."

"You alright?" John asked her as he checked the strap securing the duffel. "You could have warned me before you went off on your own."

"I don't need a sitter for geckos, John. We've been hunting the beasts for years now, me and…" She choked on the name, then steeled herself. The fakest smile John ever saw – that is, the first – split her face, her muscles stiff with the effort. "Besides, it was a private farewell party. On an invite basis, you know." Her eyes remained hard and hollow.

The day saw no further accidents, only young geckos and wild dogs in the distance; they gave the caravan a wide berth at the first warning shot. They advanced at a steady if slow pace, to allow for Ringo's wounds and the elderly to keep up.

Twice, they stopped by the road to roast some of the meat over a fire and rest. Jean Sky Diving was vacant but for the traces of the late residents, not a soul around. So was the next camp they passed by the road a few hours later.

"Gangers," John said, kicking away an empty crate labeled with the ominous 'TNT'. "They vacated a while ago. Three, four days at most by the looks of it."

"Yep." Sunny rose from her crouch at the side of the road, glaring at the desert. "I think they went south, but there's no way to track them on the tarmac."

"No need either," said Doc Mitchell. "Our priority is Primm. Let's just hope we don't meet them later."

The sun climbed higher, trailing their progress and beating a tattoo on the back of his neck. The cowboy hat, while snug and shadowing his face, itched like crazy against his scar. John subdued the urge to tear it off and submitted to the incessant torment, reasoning that the full glare of the sun would be a worse trade-off.

Primm's rollercoaster soon stood out against the low rises of this stretch of the Mojave, inching closer and closer as midmorning progressed into early afternoon. At some point after lunch, Ringo decided to strike up a conversation to break the monotony of travel if nothing else.

John soon decided he preferred chatterbox Ringo over mopey Ringo. He was a well of information.

"That range to the west is the Spring Mountains. Primm's right at its feet. It's the one natural barrier against the elements all the way down to I-15 intersection and the Mojave Outpost. There's only one pass through, and the storms blowing from the Divide are a pain in the ass already with that single gap. Last time I passed through the NCR Outpost, there was talk of sending soldiers north to deal with the Powder Gangers. The officer in charge, this Ranger fellow Jackson, he insisted we bunk down and let the troops clear the road, but O'Connel argued we had to pull through."

Ringo shook his head, emotion coloring his voice. "Stubborn brahmin. Said McLafferty wouldn't stand for another delay in the delivery. He just feared she'd demote him back to stable hand. For all the good it did him, we could have just left all the food and meds we carried wrapped up at the Gangers' doorstep and took McLafferty's lashing. Maybe they wouldn't all be rotting in the desert right now. Or maybe I'd be deathclaw dung at Quarry Junction."

The sun was low on the horizon as the caravan left the main road, now coasting the low western hills, for a narrower one heading farther to the west the map said would take them by the only access through Primm's walled perimeter. John kept both eyes out and a finger on the trigger, scanning the rocky slopes for signs of ambush or game. It wasn't a hundred paces before Sunny called the halt.

"I don't like it," she growled as he accepted the binoculars she offered, "I don't like it one bit."

Ringo had told him that the Interstate-15 ran under Primm more than through it. It puzzled him at first, but now John could well see why: most of the town's still-standing buildings, rollercoaster included, stood on a level with the rest of the desert around them, surrounded by a long perimeter wall of concrete blocks and tall, iron spikes.

John guessed that at some point in the past before the bombs fell, part of the road's foundation must have caved in. Rather than trying to dig up half the town and reinforce the foundations, the town's original inhabitants built a concrete overpass spanning the gap to link the two halves of the town. John decided he wanted to be nowhere around it if - when - a thunderstorm ever found its way to the Mojave.

Sunny was pointing at the overpass. Looking through the binoculars, John felt his lips pinch together then curl into a snarl.

"NCR soldiers on one side, Gangers on the other. Sandbags, barricades, lots of guns up there, the whole nine yards. My caps are on frag mines too."

"What's goin' on now? Why're we stoppin'?" piped up Sean behind them.

"Primm's about to turn into a bloodbath, that's why," he shot back. "There's a roadblock on the other side as well. Greens and browns, not blues. Thank God for little mercies."

"Seems we've got company, though," Sunny drawled. "They look like some of your little mercies."

He handed her the binoculars and followed her pointing finger. His eyes landed on a single NCR trooper darting into a guard shack made of foil and metal scraps. On his tail, a full squad of five took position behind makeshift barricades, rifles unashamedly aimed at the caravan. Another soldier, this one wearing a green cap, came to a halt behind the first line of riflemen.

"I'm Lieutenant Hayes of the New California Republic Army, 5th battalion, 1st company! Lower your weapons and state your business! I warn you: my men won't hesitate to fire!"

* * *

"This is classified information, Miss Smiles. Trigger-happy civilians should not butt into NCR business."

They stood in the lieutenant's tent on the west bank of Primm, Hayes, Sunny, and himself. _'The ruined, dilapidated half of the town. Lucky us.'_

After they identified themselves, submitted to a search and gave a quick, cursory summary of the past two day's events, the Goodsprings caravan was escorted to a small square tucked out of sight between two large and completely wrecked buildings; good enough to stave off the wind, but useless against the chill of the desert night.

"Trigger-happy?" Sunny repeated, deliberately slow. "Look outside! _We_ are what's left of Goodsprings after _your_ convicts went trigger-happy on _us!_ And now we find you and a dozen of your soldiers sitting on your thumbs instead of putting a cap on this whole mess you caused in the first place!"

"As I said, Miss Smiles, I can't divulge anything related to military operations." Lt. Hayes adjusted his cap and straightened from the map he was pouring over. "And while you have my sympathy, I recall Goodsprings refused NCR assistance when offered. I was there when your mayor gave us the boot."

"We refused _martial law!_ " Sunny spat back, then stalked out of the tent, muttering, "this is a waste of time."

Hayes watched the flap flutter still, then turned to John. "Rein your people in, Mr. Doe," he said blankly. "I won't have civilians interfering and give the convicts cause to hang any more hostages."

"I'm not their leader," John said, grimacing at the thought of the two rotting bodies dangling in the middle of the street on the other side of Primm. Their executioners had conveniently strung them to the only working streetlights visible from the NCR's side of the town, and Primm was apparently blessed with working electricity. The stench carried all the way to their camp with every time the wind turned. "But they saved my life when they had no reason to but human decency, and it's a debt I've yet to repay."

"I'm afraid I can't help you. I have my orders..."

"… and no supplies to share, I heard your men talk. You're already down to hunting geckos, while Primm was stocked up on provisions and meds." John leaned on the metal table standing between them. "You're running out of time."

Hayes sighed and deflated a little. The black bags under his eyes reminded him of Sunny two mornings before, overtaxed with night watch and ranger duty, only worse. He supposed he didn't look much better himself right now. He didn't feel too tired though, not after he guzzled down a couple of Nuka Colas.

' _God knows it's the turbo keeping Sunny awake for three days straight. What's he running on? Duty? Pride?'_

"Thank you for spelling it in such clear terms." Lt. Hayes grimaced, staring at the map and drumming a tune on the metal table separating them. John waited. The drumming stopped.

"Truth is, we could storm the place. The convicts have better equipment than we expected and a fortified position, but they lack discipline. They're a glorified rabble, as this Cobb's attempt at Goodsprings highlighted once more."

"They pretty much razed Goodsprings."

"A dozen heavily armed men, former raiders and slavers all, were taken out by less their number in farmers, that girl, and you. No offense, but you should see what I'm talking about."

"Then why don't you do it?" John insisted, pointing at the map. "Rappel up with the cover of night. Take out the sentinels and secure the hostages in the town, then mop them up."

"I have conscripts and volunteers here, not Rangers or Iron Guardsmen." Yet John saw the gears turning behind Hayes' eyes. The next words were slow to leave his mouth. "There's more than that. But I can't disclose anything else."

Something clicked. _'What was it that Ringo said… oh, fuck it_.'

"You don't need to. How long before you move for the prison?"

Hayes' eyes widened a fraction, then he frowned. "Where did you hear that?"

"Word travels," John shrugged, then jabbed a finger at the map, "and it's logical, in its own way. Primm is a good staging area and fallback position should things go south. Fortified. The facility is only some fifteen miles north and with I-15 closed up north, you can move in only from the south."

"State your point."

John glowered at him. "Insurance. You were sent here to prepare the stage: offer Primm protection, much like you did with Goodsprings. But I don't think your superiors would let some civilians' pride throw a wrench into their plans, hence the twelve soldiers for what? Thirty, forty civilians? Primm was to fold into the NCR, willing or not. Only, the convicts beat you to it."

Hayes didn't deny a word. John unslung his backpack and rummaged inside it. The object he slammed onto the table was long and rectangular and quite beyond repair, fried circuitry poking out the burnt casing. The antenna at the top was missing.

"Cobb's gang had a couple of these. Whoever's in charge over there must have one too. Tuned to your frequencies, if they have half a brain. Your soldiers so much as get within spitting distance of the prison, or the convicts catch wind of anything underhanded, Primm turns into a slaughterhouse. But you already know that."

"I have my orders, Mr. Doe," Hayes repeated stiffly, putting no effort in disguising the dislike and frustration in his voice. "They tore to pieces the last bounty hunter I sent in there, then gave us a last warning of sorts. A note nailed to Deckard's head. Any more trespassing and they start playing bullseye with the hostages."

"They'll all be dead anyway soon enough if we do nothing. I say they deserve a chance, slim as it is. And the people of Goodsprings don't have anywhere else to go. Their supplies won't last forever."

Hayes leveled a searching look at him. "Are you volunteering? Why? I've no compensation to offer you."

' _Why indeed?'_ John crossed his arms. "I've got a bone or two left to pick with those bastards from yesterday, Lieutenant, and a debt to repay. Also, I need information on a private matter I can find only in Primm. That good enough for you?"

Hayes nodded, then moved to the exit. "It will have to do. Come then. There's someone in camp who'll be interested in hearing what you have to say."  


* * *

They found her sitting with the Goodsprings refugees and a few soldiers around a campfire, chatting with Ringo. Sunny was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Doc Mitchell.

At first, John spotted the laser rifle within easy reach, the sturdy combat armor hued black and brown covering her broad back and a ponytail of blonde hair. A recon helmet hung from her ammo belt beside a sheathed knife as long as his forearm and a scratched med-kit.

She rose smoothly to meet them before Hayes and he entered the circle of light. Strong blue eyes narrowed at Hayes from a hard, striking face, suntanned and streaked with dirt. Then they settled on John, darted briefly to Fritz on his left shoulder and he saw a spark of something he couldn't identify in her eyes.

"Lieutenant Hayes, sir," she greeted. John arched an eyebrow at her accent but had no clue as to where it placed her in the big, wide wasteland.

"Mr. Doe here is of the same mind as you regarding Primm and the convicts. Your offer still stands?"

The woman chuckled. "Finally, someone with an ounce of good sense in their head." She strode up to him, right hand shooting out. John shook it, and she almost crushed it in a steel-like vise.

"Doe? As in, John Doe?" she asked, an inscrutable expression on her face.

"That's me. And you are?"

"The name's Sarah. Sarah Lyons."

* * *

John and Sarah set out one hour before midnight. They inched out and around Primm's southern perimeter with hardly a word between them, then crossed I-15 half a mile from the NCR roadblock and turned north again. All communication was rounded down to brisk hand signals they agreed to before setting out. She led, claiming better night vision. John was too preoccupied with other matters to argue.

The moon was out and there wasn't a cloud in sight. It bathed the wasteland and slowed their advance to a sequence of crouched darts and bolts from low cover to low cover. One of them always kept an eye out for the sentinels patrolling on the great iron snake wrapping around Primm's eastern district while the other moved.

Sarah set the pace, slow and methodical, and John quickly took up the rhythm, but halfway to their destination, he made the grave mistake of thinking things were going along smoothly.

The wasteland readily saw to expunge such heresy. This time around, it was in the shape of a pair of radscorpions, each the size of a rocket car, locked into a territorial quarrel with smaller, pale bark scorpions three times their number.

John, flat on his belly behind a small rise in the ground, witnessed with a mix of fascination, awe, and anxiety the vicious snapping of bone-crushing pincers on chitin and the thrusting of stingers thicker than his leg. Shells were pierced and ichor showered the desert as the two bigger, stronger and more resilient specimens crushed their inferior kin, the smaller stingers scratching and bouncing against carapaces simply too thick for them to beat.

He didn't dare breathe or move, as the beasts hunted mostly by following vibrations, but his mind worked a mile a minute over and over the same point: if the scorpions noticed either of them, it was over. Not because he didn't believe they could take them: Fritz was a majestic weapon and a couple of shots would sever the stinger, or blind the creatures. Sarah's laser rifle would work fine too, the standard AER9 model heavily customized from what he could tell.

Guard duty was, however, notoriously dull as a rule and the Gangers atop the rollercoaster enjoyed an unparalleled view of the wasteland for miles. What better distraction than a free bout of wasteland violence, safely removed far away? One beam from either energy weapon, and they could kiss stealth goodbye, the rescue mission with it.

John risked a glanced to his companion. Sarah lay impossibly still for someone who drew breath, hair tucked under her helmet, her armor melding with the shadow of her cover. One hand was on the knife at her belt, still sheathed to prevent treacherous glints in the moonlight; the other braced before her for a quick rise into a crouch.

A final crunch and sickening tear signaled the end of the scuffle. Bark scorpions' remains littered the ground not fifty meters from John and the radscorpions eased into their hard-fought meal. Wet squelches and the crack of shattering chitin were the only sounds piercing the wasteland quiet for long minutes afterward, minutes that seemed to stretch for hours. John focused on his breathing, relaxing his tense muscles to avoid cramps that could well prove fatal for more people than himself, but his eyes remained glued to the feasting beasts.

Then it was over, as suddenly as it had begun. The radscorpions, their appetite sated and supremacy established, ventured away from I-15 and deeper into the desert at impressive speed. The carnage and a trail of gory pincer-prints were soon the only signs of their passage, but it was still a long minute after they disappeared into the night before Sarah gave the signal to move.

John exhaled and the tension seeped from his muscles together with breath held too long. _'Alright wasteland, I got it. No more fucking around.'_

* * *

Eventually, they found themselves at the base of the concrete wall surrounding Primm. John peered through one of the tall iron fences spaced out between the blocks, a concept that struck him as a poor choice against anything two-legged. Ferals could climb, after all. _  
_  
A narrow back alley strewn with rubble and rebar ran between the wall and the backyards of what must have been a row of apartment blocks once. An apocalypse later, most consisted of only ground and the first floor, the upper floors caved in. Empty windows gaped on the equally empty street, revealing peeks of interiors illuminated softly by the moon above or by the few streetlights on the other side.

Above and beyond, the top floors of the Bison Steve Hotel and Vikki and Vance Casino dominated the entire townscape, but only the neon on the former's façade was lit, as were a few windows on the top floors.

"Hayes' scouts noticed traffic between the casino and the hotel," he recapped, whispering. "The hostages must be held in one or both, but I'd wager the convicts would want true beds after months in prison."

"We go for the largest number then," Sarah said a moment later. "The casino would have holding cells in the basement, so most of the residents will be there. Only the young women and the troublemakers will be in the hotel. For sport."

John arched an eyebrow at the bluntness, then frowned. "Gangers will slit their throats once we send Hayes the signal," he pointed out.

Sarah rounded an icy glare on him. Whatever amicability she'd displayed at camp was gone in the field under a mask of professionalism. "Many against the few. The choice is easy." Her eyes returned to the back of the apartment blocks. "Besides, there'll be no signal until I find the people I'm looking for, so I don't rule out a sortie into the hotel too. I can't risk losing them."

"Who are they for you to risk so much?" _'What about many against the few now?'_ She surely changed her mind fast.

"Colleagues," she said, voice devoid but of the faintest trace of warmth. "Johnson Nash and Daniel Wyand, both work for the Mojave Express. As do I, right now." Her eyes narrowed, and she touched the hilt of her knife. "Two targets. One on the first floor, house to the right. Sitting. Another's walking on the other side, saw him through that breach in the wall. I'll take him." She pointed.

John nodded, checked his knife again and cupped his fingers to give her a boost up. Sarah chose to ignore him instead and leaped without any run-up, hands catching the upper edge of the concrete block. John arched an eyebrow as she pulled herself up without nary a sound by arms' strength alone, armor and all, then hauled himself up behind her.

They landed with two muffled thuds and split up. John reached the opposite wall in seconds, then stopped, looking upwards until the distracted sentinel on the rollercoaster disappeared from view entirely. He spotted Sarah in his peripheral vision just as she disappeared around a corner, then put her out of his mind, carefully drawing his knife in his right hand as he crept past the empty doorway.

' _Upstairs, she said.'_

The interior was strewn with broken bottles, empty syringes, and bits of smashed furniture, but the pavement was concrete, as were the stairs. He navigated through the small minefield of noise inducers towards the stairs without fault and checked the door leading further into the ground floor for surprises, finding none.

Halfway up the stairs, the creaking of wood and a slurred curse made him freeze.

"Goddam… 's over again… oh shit, mah head…"

John inched up another few steps. He heard the convict stumble on his feet and a mumbled groan where he fell against the wall. He pressed himself against the corner and reversed his grip on the knife. His heart rate was up, a rhythmic throb around his scar with every contraction. Yet, unlike the excitement that scooped him up in those few, fatal minutes in Goodsprings, he felt more in control, calm. Almost poised to spring.

' _I fucked up once already. Badly. Not this time 'round.'_

"Dan… c'mon Dan, wake th'fuck up… need 'nother…"

A thud, then another muffled curse, incoherent mumbling. _'Great, another junkie. Sounds wasted worse than the first.'_

John exhaled softly, then crept around the corner. A short corridor opened up into a wider room, a broken window granting him a quick glimpse of the street below. More syringes, a small pharmacy really, were discarded all around, and kneeling in the middle of it all was a ganger, shaking another one half-rolled into a worn sleeping-bag.

' _Poetic.'_ He covered the distance in two steps, pressed the artificial hand on the kneeling convict's mouth and sunk the knife deep between collarbone and trapezium at an angle. The blade cut through the lung, bisected the aorta and plunged into the heart. He twisted it, for good measure.

The ganger tensed for a moment, wheezed and then slumped against him. John felt warm blood on his palm, drooling out of the dead man's mouth, and lowered the body to the ground with nary a sound.

' _Bastard's so high he didn't notice a thing.'_ He spared the comatose man a look, then drove the knife into the exposed back of his neck. He passed seamlessly from sleep to death.

John cleaned the blade off the slacks of the corpse and looked out of the window, careful to remain invisible from any onlooker, casual or not. The apartment the addicts picked vaunted a ceiling, essential for privacy, and John was grateful for the dead men's thoughtfulness.

The street below was wide, well-lit and completely empty to boot, bar the decomposed bodies hanging from two of the streetlamps. John grimaced in disgust, then hurried downstairs and past the doorway he saw before, navigating through empty rooms and broken walls until he was through, a little to the west compared to the chem den.

He spotted the limp foot at the last moment, then the body it belonged to tossed behind a counter. _'Ganger, dead,'_ was all he registered, and all that really mattered.

' _Now where's that woman?'_

The room he entered must have been a shop of some kind way back. Beside the counter, the whole front wall was open to the street, from the ceiling almost to the floor. Rundown shelves long picked clean lined both shorter walls.

Primm's main avenue opened up before him, cracked tarmac and wide sidewalks wrestled in between the casino and the hotel. Four streetlights faced each other off on either side of the street, pawns flanking the entrances of the slumbering giants behind them.

' _Let's make sure they remain asleep a while longer.'_

Two convicts hung around Vikki and Vance's doors, one sitting on a chair and perusing some pre-war magazine, the other leaning against the wall, pulling at his smoke. Both had rifles within easy reach and both had traded their convict clothes for sturdy leather armor which they wore under the Gangers' blue jacket uniform. Both were the picture of the bored guard counting down the minutes to their relief.

John judged the distance and grimaced. He'd be able to rush one, maybe, if luck was on his side. Then one shot would ruin it all.

' _Still, I'm pretty close. I could shoot both down and barricade inside the casino until the cavalry arrives. If they have nobody inside, ready to make true on their promise and pick off the hostages at the first sign of trouble. The sentinels above too, no way they won't see me and wake everyone up. Can't shoot the lights out either. Shit.'_

Too many ifs and variables. Too many things that could and would go wrong. Even assuming there was nobody inside the casino but the hostages, being found out would doom the ones in the hotel, an unknown number of them. He'd have to be in both places at once to have a chance at saving everyone, and that was simply plain impossible.

The choice was taken from him when he noticed movement on the balcony atop the casino's entrance. Sarah emerged from a belly-crawl, laser rifle tracing a bead across the street. An energy beam flashed through the night: one of the sentinels on the rollercoaster fell with a cry, hands clawing at the melted mask of what was left of his face.

' _Oh fuck!'_

Before the first splattered against the ground, another beam shot out, taking the second patrolman square in the chest. The two guards at the casino door dove for their weapons after a single moment of hesitation. It was all John needed to shake off his surprise and mute the screaming in his head.

Fritz _pew'd_ in quick succession. The two guards fell just as quickly, smoke billowing from where the beams scorched their flesh. John vaulted over the counter and crossed the street at a run, exploiting the few seconds it would take the Gangers at the barricades to react.

He reached the door and the familiar stench of cooked flesh as Sarah dived from the balcony five meters above and landed with a roll, rifle out and checking for targets.

"Open it," she said, shooting two beams at a window. Someone cried. "Now!"

John grabbed with both hands at the lock keeping the heavy chain tied snugly around the double doors' handles. The thought of bobby pins briefly popped up and was brutally repressed.

John closed his left hand around the lock and wrenched.

The lock snapped after but a moment's resistance, the screech of metal eclipsed by the explosion of gunfire close by, an approaching cacophony of promised violence, and the hissing of Sarah's laser rifle belching beams non-stop at the Bison Steve's doors and windows.

John ripped off the handles when the chain didn't relent at the first pull, then kicked the door in and barged through, Fritz leveled before him. The empty casino's lounge welcomed him and after a cursory glance he turned and tapped Sarah on the shoulder.

"Peel!"

The blonde sent one last blast at a convict and spun to the side, then darted inside double time and John took up the barrage of lasers on the convicts without a moment's respite. He dropped one on the hotel's balcony and scared the living shit out of another who dared poke his head out, then retreated behind the double doors, keeping up a steady rate of fire.

Shots peppered his position moments later, pinging on the door. He answered with blind beams from Fritz. The gangers' fire picked up in intensity, pinning him behind the door, but John refused to retreat further inside. He bided his time and ground his teeth at every passing second.

' _Come on Hayes! Come on!'_

More guns barked into the firefight, and the weight of fire shifted from John to the new, more numerous threat. Exhaling, he rounded the doors and tore across the street, crashing shoulder-first into a stupefied convict just as he crossed the doorway clogged with the corpses of his gangmates.

They fell hard and John heard the ganger gasp under him, the breath driven out of his lungs by the impact and the SMG pinned between them, digging into his cracked ribs. John smashed Fritz's butt into his jaw, knocking the man unconscious, then ducked behind a corner as another sprayed the lobby with bullets, riddling his mate with lead and showering John with blood in the process.

' _How many are there?!'_

John blasted the man's leg into a cauterized stump, then again in the chest as he crashed to the ground screaming. He didn't stop to admire his handiwork but swept Fritz around the corner and sprinted into a deserted corridor, his steps bouncing off the walls.

Gunshots resonated behind him and to his right from a flight of stairs leading upstairs. A familiar weight settled snugly onto his chest as he took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the corridor to his left and the wide ballroom right in front of him.

' _God please, not again. Not again!'_

Up one ramp, then another. He didn't see the flamethrower until the smell of propane filled his nostrils.

Body overrode mind. He felt himself drop into a backward roll as the convict squeezed the trigger, igniting the gas and dousing the staircase in flames. John hit the steps hard on his back as the fire licked his face, eating at his flesh. The Ganger's aim was thrown off as his arm buckled under the jet reaction, pushing the stream upwards and bathing the sloping ceiling.

Inertia carried John into a backward roll, slamming his back into the wall and drawing a choked gasp of pain from him as the Ganger tried to readjust his aim, finally cutting off the gas and levelling the fire gun at him. John lifted Fritz, muzzle shaking violently, vision swimming from the searing pain on his face and right hand. Gunfire exploded in his ears.

' _Wha-'_

The pyro toppled backward on the gas tank, then flopped to the side. Voices and loud steps washed over John, barreling up the stairs, and he felt a sting in his hand and neck, almost missing it with every inch of his skin _burning_ like hell.

"Listen to my voice, John." _'Who? Sunny –' "_ It's alright. You're gonna be alright, ok? Now rest, you've done enough. Let me handle it."

' _No. I can't. You won't - the girls - everyone - save'em! I have to –'_

The pain blunted under a building euphoria. His hands reached forward, grabbed blindly at the torn moquette. Other hands held him still, and darkness approached fast at the edges of his vision.

' _Story of my life.'_

It swallowed him.

* * *

 _ **Edited, 20-04 17:**_ _Thanks again to_ _ **Excisium.**_

 _ **Edit#2 23-04-18:** Seems 2018 is **PartyPat22's** turn to get on the editing horn. _


	3. 3) The Sincerest Form of Flattery

**Chapter 3: The Sincerest Form of Flattery**

John was getting tired of funerals.

Lt. Hayes had no authority to confine him to rest and John, for his part, had no excuse to turn down attendance when Johnson Nash, the town's mayor, asked for him by name outside the field hospital tent.

Doc Mitchell, the closest thing to a medical officer within miles, flat-out rejected the request. Then John tore away the bandages around his face, revealing scars where second-degree burns and worse had been not twelve hours prior. That silenced any further protests and caused quite a few jaw dislocations when he stalked out of the tent, wincing at the sun beating on his face and painfully aware of the Doc's eyes boring into his back.

After such a grand exit, he found himself with nothing to do. It appeared that the general consensus wished for him to attend, but regarded him fit for nothing but rest. They didn't ask him to wrap the bodies up in sheets or drag them behind a line of shacks, where the town graveyard was. Citizens of Primm and NCR soldiers bent over shovels together, taking turns in preparing their dead's last place of repose.

The convicts burned: their bodies were already heaped in a pile. John caught a glimpse of the flamethrower in passing and looked away, his face stiff, the grimace pulling at sore muscles and stretching the cicatrized skin painfully.

' _At least I got rid of that bush on my face.'_

John stood by himself as Primm mourned its dead, finding it hard to breathe, hard to swallow, hard to _think_. Sarah was conspicuously absent, and John hadn't seen – or heard – Sunny since the previous night. Doc Mitchell had told him she was 'helping around town', then bent over a wounded soldier. The woman's pained groans had ended their conversation.

The people the convicts had hung, their bodies exposed to the elements and carrion eaters for days, stank like hell. The sheriff and his wife, left to rot even longer in their shack at the edge of town, were even worse. There was a moment of awkwardness when their turn came, and the NCR soldiers who 'volunteered' as muscle for the rites hesitated, turning looks bordering on the pleading to their commanding officer.

John felt something lurch inside him at the sight of their greening faces, but he didn't budge from his spot. They cowed under Hayes' stony countenance.

Bar those long dead, nine more were interred. Five were soldiers, their graves marked with the dates on their dog tags: not one was older than twenty. John briefly considered them, but they'd died doing their duty, fighting for their nation in a backwater ruin in the desert. Soldiers knew the risks when they signed up. Others would remember them.

He tried to burn the remaining four's names in his memory, forcing himself to look at their faces, no matter how ruined, and hear their stories from parents and friends.

Anthony Beagle was the younger brother of sheriff's wife and the lawman's deputy. A soldier told John they found Beagle in the Bison Steve's kitchen, gagged and bound, still kneeling on the floor. The binds kept him upright even after the convicts shot him in the head.

He had no family or friends to mourn or remember him. Only John. And at the moment, he felt singularly incapable of the former.

Nora, Fortuna, and Delilah were found upstairs, playthings for the Powder Gangers just as Sarah had foreboded. Fortuna and Delilah were twins, believed blessed with luck on birth. John guessed their parents, sobbing wrecks holding each other now that their world came crashing down around them, would disagree.

Nora… Sergeant McGee begged John to spare him the retelling, but he'd been merciless. He would remember them, all of them. He needed to remember, so that next time, he'd be fast enough and good enough to save even one more life.

Trudy, Pete, Chet. Beagle, Nora, Fortuna, and Delilah. Another list, this one filling up faster than the other, but whose names would remain even after a job well done.

* * *

A brief talk with Johnson Nash later – right before Sarah Lyons sequestered him and another man into the Mojave Express's office with a smile on her face – turned John's attention away from the night prior and back on rails. Destination: Checkered Suit.

" _Great Khans? Ah, I believe Beagle mentioned 'em a while back. Old men and memory are a bad fit. Poor sod noted down everything, always scribbling he was. You can check the sheriff's office if you can stand the smell. Take what you want. We'll probably tear it down in a few days, what with the NRC getting cozy. Oh, and stop by later."_

Doc Mitchell had other plans.

"We need to talk," he announced, scowling darkly.

John looked around. The Doc planned it alright: out in the middle of Primm, soldiers and citizens alike milling around, the overpass a spitting distance away. _'Next time, torches and pitchforks.'_

"We already did, last night. Thank you for patching me up, by the way. Don't you have patients to tend to?"

"Your concern is as touching as it is real. And we both know it's not me why your face looks almost new. Nor why you survived two bullets to your brain."

"Doc –"

"No, John." Mitchell shook his head, his expression wary, almost angry. His shoulders vibrated with tension. "I don't want an explanation or another bout of 'selective amnesia'. I don't care who you are, or what you are," he paused, staring him in the eye. "I want you to leave, and never come back."

John blinked. It was a slap in the face, but one he couldn't say he didn't expect or deserve. It was ironic, really.

' _You were the first to welcome me to this world. You gave me a name. It's fitting you'd be the first to cast me away.'_

But at the moment he was cranky, his head pounded like hell and he could feel the flesh in his face reknit and smoothing over as whatever kept him alive twice already alleviated the worst of his wounds. "You have no right to ask – no, command me. Or exile me."

The Doctor glared back from the moral high grounds of those who've lived far too long to give two shits about anyone else's opinion. "That's arguable. But I'll still do it. Finish your business here, then go. And don't take Sunny with you."

' _Oh. So this is it.'_ "She's an adult. She can make her own choices. And she can survive out there longer than you could ever hope to."

"Right now, her choices will take her to an early grave. And you'd be handing her the shovel."

Silence. Ligaments popped as John's hands balled into fists. "Fuck you, Doc."

Mitchell sighed. "Don't mistake this for ingratitude. I am grateful John. I truly am. If not for me, for Sunny and Janine." John blinked again. Another sigh. "The girl. But you place yourself into the thick of things without hesitation, and you don't live an uneventful life. I won't ask you to change your ways: I don't think you'd know how and you've got the skills to live that life. Ultimately, it's your business. But leave Sunny out of it."

John shook his head, eyes to the sky, and for the first time, he felt like laughing. _'_

"I left her at camp last night. Just like you asked me."

"You did. And one hour later she was shooting at Gangers on the overpass, skidding among landmines. I have got one badly injured man at the tent because of that: he'll probably lose his leg." The Doc rubbed his eyes and coughed in his hand. John waited, injured pride silencing the concern for the Doctor's own health. "Do you know how much turbo she's taken already? She hasn't slept for _days_."

John exhaled violently, then passed an arm through his short cropped hair. "Then I'll help you tie her to a cot, dose her and flush the shit out of her system. Happy?"

"No," Mitchell said, matching John's disbelieving stare. "She looks up to you John, and don't deny what you shared the last night in Goodsprings. She was about to die, and you came to the rescue. You've killed raiders by the dime and saved people, a lot of people. Vengeance and heroism in the same package. What she wants to see herself as. But it's an image she can't take up. Maybe one day. But not in the condition she's in now."

"I'm no fucking _hero_ , Doc!" John hissed through gritted teeth. "I thought you knew better."

"True, but you did more than most. The people in that casino owe you their life. And you showed up at the funeral wounded as you were, unlike that mercenary woman. Things like that tend to impress people. It's only a matter of time before she tries to emulate you. Last night was a testament to that, and it's gonna get worse the longer you hang around. And make no mistake: she's unhinged, and she'll die. And I'll never forgive you that."

John glowered, jaw set, fists clenching and unclenching spasmodically. Mitchell waited, unapologetic, but the scowl had disappeared, replaced by bone-deep weariness.

His mind flashed back to the conversation on the graveyard hill, the projects of vengeance, the alcohol, and Victor. The phantom scratches on John's back pulsed to obscure the pain in his face and hands. He remembered her wounded look, torn between anger, betrayal, and pleading when he told her to stay put in camp just the night prior. The way she absently caressed her rifle while deep in thought as the caravan shared gecko steaks and jalapenos.

The pressure on his chest reared its ugly head, squeezing his heart into mush.

John cursed under his breath and left, dropping the cowboy hat lower on his face. Mitchell watched him go for a moment, then rubbed his eyes and crossed the overpass to the field hospital, hand finding the photograph in his pocket.

Neither noticed the figure retreating from the balcony into Vikki and Vance Casino.

* * *

' _God, the stench!'_

John shut the door to the sheriff's house and office behind his back and exhaled violently, then sighed as fresh, only slightly smoky air filled his sore lungs. He coughed by reflex, then winced as his skin pulled. The peculiar smell of burning human flesh reached his nose as he contemplated the column of black smoke carving the sky in half just outside of town.

' _Too bad the wildlife would come back for seconds if they let the bastards rot. What's worse, two days into the world and I'm already getting used to it.'_

John pulled the duster closer around him and walked off, feeling the unfamiliar weight of the bowie knife across the back of his ammo belt. A couple of passing people did a double take when they spotted him, but John felt no shame in repurposing some of the late sheriff's belongings. The man's hat and tin star were clipped to his grave, and John would never take either anyway.

However, the duster was sturdy, good for camping in the cold desert nights and warding off the wind. The bowie would serve as a good backup weapon when things got hairy and one knife wasn't enough. The belt…

' _Well, Fritz needs no ammo, but my gun does; any other weapon I find will too. Better with me than molding somewhere else.'_

John looked at the sky from under the rim of his hat. The sun was halfway through its downward arch, but the Spring Mountains would cut off at least one hour of sunlight. The Doc's words echoed in his ears, but looking around he found himself unwilling to leave already and spend the night out in the cold, alone, when Primm would still be well within sight and memory in the morning.

' _Ah, fuck it. Nash wanted to talk. Maybe the notes will stir his old man memory.'_

He brushed the notebook in his pocket. Nash was right: Deputy Beagle was almost pathological in noting down his reports. The drawers of his desk were filled with stacked notebooks, a third of which still empty, if not pristine. Cataloged in that veritable maze of paper, John found the note he needed. His lips pressed into a grim line.

Checkered suit still had quite the retinue. Greased prick and his fashion statement were bound for Novac, but that was weeks ago. _'Seems though that Sunny's guess was spot on. Only way to reach the Strip now.'_

Before his mind could trip him into thoughts of the once spunky woman, John halted in front of the Mojave Express office, just next door to the empty shop he skulked in the previous night, just before Lyons kicked the hornet nest. As if the turned off, big, neon sign screaming 'Mojave' wasn't telling, it was most impressively one of the few buildings two stories high with an intact roof atop it.

As he approached, the door swung inwards and the mercenary herself stepped out, talking over her shoulder with a broad, black man with short cropped hair and a courier bag slung across his chest.

' _Now, how do I know that?'_

The man chuckled at something she said, but John didn't hear that. Instead, his eyes widened as a spherical robot half a meter in radius followed them out of the office, bobbing softly up and down at shoulder's height. A profusion of antennae shot out of its body, pointing down, backward and to the side, centered around a grill that covered it's front.

Foreign thoughts took possession of his mind. _'That's an Eyebot. No, wait, not a regular one good only for info gathering and propaganda, that's the combat model! Laser gun, improved reversible thrusters and duraframe plating. What's a thing like that doing here?'_

The Eyebot chirped, shaking John out of his daze. He realized Sarah was talking to him.

" –op daydreaming, John. You in there?" Her tone was back to the friendly one from their introduction, devoid of the cold, assessing dismissiveness of the night excursion. In the daylight her features, while still stunning, seemed less sharp than he recalled at night. Behind her, the courier shook his head.

"Yeah, sorry. The Eyebot surprised me." He edged closer around her, curious despite still reeling from the sudden onslaught of information and images trying to take root in his brain. "Where did you find it?"

"The Eyebot? Oh, you mean ED-E. On the office counter. Nash said a courier brought it in some time ago. Someone had used it for target practice and then left it by the road. Turned out it was just some minor damage to the energy dispenser." She arched an eyebrow at him. "You know what it is?"

John hesitated, then nodded. _'How?_ "Yeah. I think so, at least. It's a patrol and maintenance unit. They were mass-produced before the war, mostly for civilian use, but weren't really built to last. This one is a combat model. You lucked out big time, Sarah."

She held his gaze for a second, then shrugged. "I never say no to a bonus." Shielding her eyes, her expression turned sour. "The Lieutenant dragged out that conversation far too long. What do you say, Wyand," she said, turning to the courier now lounging to the side. "Up to head out while there's still light? We can camp at the Patrol Station and continue at dawn tomorrow without losing time at the checkpoint."

A small smirk played on the man's lips and he shrugged. "Fine by me, Sarah. The sooner we leave, the sooner we get there."

"Good." She adjusted the strap of her laser rifle across her chest and patted her pocket. Caps jingled. "We're off then. John, it's been a pleasure."

"Likewise," he said, shaking her hand. He offered a nod at the courier. "Safe travels."

"You too. Maybe we'll meet again. The Mojave is a sandbox."

John watched them walk away for a few seconds, chatting already. His vision was full of the woman's swaying hips, and he enjoyed the view for a few moments more. Then he shook his head and pushed the door.

A small bell rang above his head and John stopped to stare. The two men at the counter put down their glasses, brown liquid lapping at the rims, and Hayes motioned him forward.

"Ah, Mr. Doe. Come in, don't stand in the door. I was looking for you. Johnson here said you'd be stopping by."

"Hm, yeah." John took a moment to look around himself. The post office was large and well-lit by the light filtering through the opaque, cracked glass and a spinning fan lamp. A counter decorated with two glasses and a half-empty bottle of whiskey spanned the length of the front room, cutting off customers from the back-office space. One corner was dominated by a blocky, rusted dropbox that reminded John of a pre-war copy machine stamped with faded 'Mojave Express' prints all over it.

It was clear by the shelves covered in all kinds of cheap to decent goods that Nash tripled as the local tradesman; on cue, the singed leather armor started stinging under his duster. _'Beggars can't be choosers. Suck it up, John.'_

"Drink?" offered Nash, producing another glass from under the counter.

"Thank you." He grabbed and downed it in one swift motion, relishing the burn of the alcohol down his throat and the heat as it nestled into his stomach. "So, who's first?"

"That sounds like a threat," said Hayes. "I wanted to thank you. We'd still be on the other side of Primm without you and that Lyons woman."

"And we owe you our lives," Nash said. "Them gangsters would have hung us all in a coupla days, once they got bored." Nash grimaced, rubbing his neck for emphasis. The web on his leathery face darkened in grief. "It's a goddamned shame for Nora and the girls."

John felt his fist clench, mind flashing to the women's faces - what remained of Nora's, really - but said nothing. Hayes nodded in sympathy and poured Nash another whiskey, which the man downed quickly.

"Rest assured, that will be the last you hear of the Powder Gangers. And that," he turned to John once more, "that's exactly what you and I are going to talk about."

"I'm all ears, Lieutenant. When are we moving?"

"Not so fast, John," chided Hayes. "First, this is for last night's work. You did the NCR a service. We appreciate it. _I_ appreciate it."

John caught the small pouch, feeling the caps inside shift and jingle in his hands. Hayes continued, "One-hundred fifty caps, same as Lyons. And there's more where that came from, but for that, I need you to come with me." He rose from his stool and patted the front of his armor. "Mr. Nash."

"Lt. Hayes," Nash tipped the brim of an imaginary hat. "John. Come back anytime." John choked down a mirthless chuckle.

"I thought the people here weren't all that fond of the NCR," said John once the door closed behind them. Hayes, face composed again in an officer's inscrutability, started towards the overpass.

"They aren't," Hayes deadpanned. "Many demand the NCR protection, but would sooner see us out in the desert than pay a cap in taxes. They pride themselves on an independence they've never really had and think we are some watered-down alternative to the Legion, only with fewer slaves and more taxes and bureaucracy."

John took off his hat and batted it against his thigh, sighing as the constant itching of his scar abated. "And yet they depend on your caravans and the tourists to the Strip to get by."

"There's that," the soldier conceded. "But that's a byproduct. The NCR brings civilization. Our technicians operate the Dam and give the Mojave electricity and running water. We patrol the highways, deal with raiders, slavers and mutants. The Followers started out in the Boneyard, despite the whole mess after the last war. The Gangers were brought in to expand the railways from McCarran and Sloan to the south. And each of these things is paid with the blood of our soldiers."

Hayes' voice lowered and his face grew grimmer. "I lost five good men last night. Two more are no longer fit for duty. And all the acknowledgment we got was a shot of whiskey and a tepid welcome. But I must remain _diplomatic_." He almost spat the last word.

John remained silent at that. He understood the man's frustration, or at least he thought he did. To give his best, putting himself and the men under his command in danger where he could have waited, only to emerge empty-handed and with more lost lives weighing down on him.

The breath hitched in his throat. _'Yeah, I know where you come from.'_

"But enough of that." They crossed the overpass and Hayes ushered him into his tent. Nothing had changed since the last time he entered. Was it really less than a day ago? John could hardly believe it. "There are more caps for you to assist in the next part of the operation. Let's say, two-hundred. You in?"

John cast a look at the ever-present map and resisted his first impulse to jump right in. _'Novac's far and the Strip further away. I'll need the cash,'_ part of his mind said, while the other struggled with his self-control to throw his lot in just for a chance at the convicts.

"I need details," he ventured, "but I'm interested."

Hayes grunted. "The Outpost radioed in. The strike team hit the road this morning. They ought to arrive by tomorrow at midday. Then, we leave a token force here and march on the prison."

"How many? And what resistance do you expect?"

"Twenty from the outpost, plus two rangers. From here, Sgt McGee will guide you. He's already scouted the area around the prison. Ranger Morales and Sgt. Lee will be in overall command of the operation."

"How many of the fuckers are holed up in there?" John asked again, leaning heavily on the table.

"The last census had one hundred and twenty prisoners. A number of them died during the escape, then they fractured in bands and groups of their own, mostly reforming the gangs they belonged to. They quarreled, of course. Hate and grudges run deep among that lot."

A finger circled the map to the north and east of Goodsprings. "A large group, forty at least, moved north some time ago before Quarry Junction became off-limits. Others struck off on their own, like that Chaves scum we nailed down two weeks ago. The rest remains loosely under Eddy's command." Hayes' fingers drummed a tune on the table. "Between here and Goodsprings, it's at least another thirty cut from that number."

"Best case scenario, they still outnumber you. And they'll barricade inside the moment a uniform crests the hill. Probably are already."

"We're counting on that." At John's confusion, Hayes explained, "The more inside the complex, the better. The Powder Gangers don't hold the monopoly on explosives in this corner of the world."

"You'll wreck the facility. Where will you house the next batch you set to work on the monorail then?"

Hayes shrugged, then straightened. "That's above my paycheck. But Outpost was clear we shouldn't waste time on prisoners." The lieutenant's hand inched forward. "Now. You in?"

John shook it without a moment's hesitation, mouth pressed into a thin, grim line. "A good Ganger is a dead Ganger."

* * *

John was shaken from his nightmares filled faces contorted in pain, blasting fire and suffocation by steps climbing the stairs at a gallop.

' _Third time tonight. I'm gonna kill you, Ringo.'_ Cracking one eye open, he noticed a weak glow seeping through the cracked shutters. _'Dawn. Barely. Another hour won't-'_

The steps reached his door. By the time Doc Mitchel barged through the door, ashen-faced and struggling for breath, John was already on his feet, Fritz aimed.

"What the hell, Doc?!"

"John - " he wheezed, slumping against the doorsill. John rushed in to support the elderly doctor before he hit the ground. The old man was shaking and sweating. "John – she - ugh - she's –"

"You'll tell me later, Doc," John cut him off, strong-arming the frail man to the bed. "Sit down, breathe. Don't speak."

"You don't – she - Sunny – "

Women's voices screaming, faces contorting into a haze of crimson. John's heart skipped a beat. He grabbed the Doc by the shoulders, a moment away from shaking the answer from the man's bones. "What's wrong with Sunny? She hurt?!"

"She's left, gone," the Doc managed, then a coughing fit gripped him. Seconds slowed to hours as John was riveted to the floor. "The watch says she went.. she went for a walk after dinner." The Doctor lifted sunken eyes to John's face. "She's not come back, John. They heard gunfire. From the east."

John was out of the door before the Doc finished the sentence. Two doors down, he barged through without knocking. Ringo bolted upright on his bed, hand reaching for his gun. The half-naked woman beside him didn't stir, an empty syringe of med-x on the nightstand.

"John? What –"

"Doc's in my room. Look after him." And he was gone.

Fritz batted against his side as he took the steps three at a time. He pushed the Bison's door wide and wind tore at his duster, beating on his face. He stopped and looked up, then behind, eyes narrowing against the grains of sand the wind kicked up. Clouds shadowed the Spring Mountains, yellow-orange as the desert-sand, sick and foreboding.

Ringo's words echoed in his head. " _The storms from the Divide are already bad enough with that single gap."_

' _Son of a bitch.'_

He took off at a run, retracing the Doctor's steps and rocketing into the small NCR camp. The only sentinel was too busy with his nose up in the air to stop him. A brahmin mooed in discomfort, pulling at its leash.

"Hayes!" he shouted as a greeting, bursting through the flap. "I need Sergeant McGee!"

The M16A1 levelled at his chest didn't even register. Hayes, clad only in his BDU pants, gave him a once-over, then slowly lowered the rifle and rose from the cot. "John, what in the actual fuck – "

"No time! I need McGee and I need him now. Sunny's missing!"

The lieutenant frowned, then his expression darkened into a scowl. "You think – "

"I do," John slashed the air before him, teeth gritting. "Doc said the night watch heard gunfire from the hills. She went after them."

"Then she's dead," Hayes decided after a moment. John had to stop himself from strangling the man. "I'm sorry, but I won't send you and the Sergeant into this folly. She's made her choice."

" _Right now, her choices will likely lead to an early grave. And you'd be handing her the shovel."_

"Goddamnit, don't rule her out!" _'She's alive. She must be.' '_ "Give me McGee, we'll move ahead of your fucking strike team!"

"No."

John punched Hayes straight in the face.

The lieutenant probably expected that, but John was faster, angrier. His right hand struck out like a coiled rattler and connected with Hayes' nose, sending him careening into his cot gushing blood from the nose.

The flap fluttered closed behind him. A moment later he grabbed the night watch by the shoulder pad and shook him from his weather contemplations.

"Wha –"

"The gunfire tonight. When?! Which direction?!"

"I – I –" The soldier looked into John's eyes and swallowed thickly." North and w-west, sir. 'Round midnight, one o'clock in the mornin' tops. Sir."

John pushed him away and took off. The wind picking up carried Hayes' shouted orders to his ears long after he left Primm behind.

* * *

He wasn't much of tracker. Even in his heightened state, adrenaline and fear pumping in equal measures through his veins, he knew that. That's what Sgt. McGee the scout was for.

There was not much missing a body sprawled in the middle of the wastes, however. Not when that body was clad in navy blues and the first, intrepid bloatflies buzzed around the congealed blood and cooling flesh for the choicest pick.

John didn't know whether to feel elated or listen to the sinking pit in his stomach.

Two slashes of the bowie later and the insects's broken husks crunched to the ground. He kneeled beside the body and tore away a large strip of cloth from his jacket, wrapping it around his mouth and nose to fend off the increasing quantities of sand the storm was throwing at him.

' _A gunshot wound to the side of the head. Rifle or large caliber pistol. Sunny. Was he alone?'_ He turned his head around frantically, narrowing his eyes. The sun was up, but little of it penetrated the clouds rolling overhead from the Divide.

' _There. Fucking storm. More blood there, surely not this one's. No bodies, though. Injured, severe, nicked a vessel.'_ Again, his head darted left and right, eyes aching to take everything in. _'No dragging signs or bloody paws. Bootprints. No bodies.'_

They'd taken her.

Relief at her survival mixed with anger at her stupidity, then with worry at the storm messing with the tracks. Fear gripped his mind next, looping his thoughts, drying his throat to wasteland dust.

' _They took her. To the prison. Too many of the bastards.'_

He started running, bootprint after bootprint, drop of blood after drop of blood. He didn't even know why anymore. She'd killed one of them. Attacked them, on their turf. They'd spare her only to make her wish she was dead in the first place, over and over again.

And he couldn't do anything about it.

He ran. Until his legs ached, then burned. Until the pounding in his head grew from a drum to a military parade slamming boots against his skull. Until he felt ready to puke out his lungs. The tracks ended and he looked around, eyes dancing wildly in his sockets.

' _There. Lights. A tower. It's the prison. Fuckfuckfuck, where is the strike team?!'_

He stood in the storm, listening, but there was only the wind roaring in his ears, gluing the duster to his back. It pushed him forward, towards the lights. John's grip on Fritz tightened until his hand was numb and his knuckles white, then he took a step forward, and heard the voices.

"C'mon Lem, don't be mad –"

' _Where?'_ He spun around, but the wind battered at his ears, forcing his eyes shut.

"You selfish prick, you squeez'd too long – "

' _There!'_ He bulldozed to his left then slid down a slope, gravel sliding under him and more dust joining the ranks of the storm. The light of a lantern flickered at the mouth of a cave, then disappeared from view.

"What's the problem, pal?"

"Chris and Kyle are dead, you didn't share and we're stuck in the middle of a fuckin' storm, that's mah problem!"

John rounded into the cave, his feet turning into lead with every step. The wind pulled at the tail of his duster, trying to force him out, but then he was inside and the wind was just a whistling howl, miles and miles away. He skipped over a cooling body, male and with a belt tied around his thigh, a small pool of blood congealing under him.

"Stop a bein' a pickish prissy. She's still warm, y'see? I'll turn around if you're shy – "

"I'll show you shy, you damn – Hey, who the fuck are you?!"

Red, pounding red filled John's vision. Wails and cries and pleas roared in his ears, silencing the storm outside. He grabbed the muzzle of a rifle pointed at him and _wrenched_ , snapping the barrel and driving it into the gut of the man in front of him in the same motion, then wrenching again, to the side. Something hot sliced his face and he turned, grabbing the offending arm and twisting it until he heard and felt it snap.

A spluttering gasp replaced curses in the blink of an eye. John grabbed the scruff of hair in front of him and drove it into the wall, again and again and _again_ , until the sickening crunches weakened into wet splats and blood and brain matter coated his arm to the elbow.

Behind him, _something_ gurgled, kneeling, hands groping listlessly at the intestines lolling out of the gaping tear in its belly. John kneeled before it and the haze, like it came, dispelled, leaving throbbing clarity in its wake. He stared into the convict's eyes and saw them widen and roll up as he plunged his left hand into its belly. His fingers closed around a spine.

"Still warm, y'see?"

The Ganger flopped forward, splashed into a pool of his own blood, and was still. A pool John was kneeling into. Reality flooded back in. The cave. The wind howling outside. The pungent smell of blood and urine and waste. Blood, in his mouth, down his neck. The dead Ganger at his feet. Sunny.

"Sunny?"

"Sunny?!"

He rose, turned around, and saw her.

She was staring up at the ceiling, unseeing eyes streaked with red and black. John felt his knees hit the ground again, the final dregs of anger he worked on draining out of him. He stared at her neck, bruising black and blue, then at his own hands. The left, impossibly still, while the right couldn't stop shaking, the tremor carrying up his arm, grabbing hold of his chest, of his entire being.

' _So many. Too many. Why? Why her?! It's been only three days! Only three days.'_

John folded onto himself, wrapping his blood-soaked arms around his belly. He folded onto himself, forehead brushing hers, and he tasted salt mixed with the metal of blood in his mouth, heard the plic-plic on Sunny's still face and the first sob rocked his body.

She stared up at the ceiling as he came apart at the seams.

Later, much later, when the wind had died down and natural light bounced off the cave walls, John closed her eyes, dressed her in her bloodied leathers and returned the revolvers to her belt. _'Prize and memento.'_

Then he lifted her in his arms and began the long trek back.

"Lower your weapons, soldiers," Hayes' voice was more nasal, he noticed. He also noticed a large number of guns pointed at him. The ground, the tarmac, even the building's facades, all were covered in a film of orange sand.

"She's that lass? The one who snapped?" muttered a very pale woman with a cowboy fetish. A man in bulky, camo armor elbowed her in the ribs. "What? Don't be a hypocrite, Morales."

"We thought they got you," said Hayes with his nasal voice, ignoring the bickering in the ranks.

John nodded. "They didn't. Not me."

"I see. I should put you under arrest."

John didn't reply. He stared. Through a gap in the throng of soldiers, he saw a bald head advance with naked dread and dawning realization.

"I should, but I won't." Hayes was still there, his hand on John's shoulder. The old man shouldered through armored soldiers. Squeezed. Pushed. Cursed. "I'll let you go and bury her."

Closer. Closer. Mitchell's face emerged from between two soldiers. Then his shoulder. Then an arm, clawing forward.

' _Why won't you look at me, old man? You were right. Right all along.'_

John kneeled, braced Sunny with her back propped against his knee. Her head lolled to the side, and there were more hands, other hands, steadying it, steadying her, caressing her face, going through movements ingrained by a lifetime of experience, the same experience that tells such actions are useless.

' _Look at me, old man. You were right. Say it!'_

Choked sobs rent the air. A murmur rose from the crowd.

"Or you can come, and settle this once and for all."

John's hand brushed Fritz's trigger. He exhaled and rose to follow the lieutenant, leaving Sunny in the Doc's care. Like he should have in the first place. _'Ugly, selfish prick.'_

"Lead the way."

* * *

Consciousness returned by bits and pieces, slipping out of his grasp like mirelurk eggs before he could grab it fully. Wyand groaned as light burned into his eyes, then bit down on his tongue, falling silent.

He found himself suspended from the ground, his limbs manacled to bars, the chains pulled tight to bite into his flesh. He struggled, briefly, but knew at first glance the bindings, rusted as they were, wouldn't budge.

' _So this is it.'_ Realization sank in, and he felt only a pang of regret before acceptance settled. He'd die, after many years of service. He knew this day would come the moment they came to his tent, pulled him out of the ranks. Service, wading through the pollution of the Mojave and beyond, then, one day, death. Fitting. Appropriate. It was a good ending to a good life.

What remained was the satisfaction of fouling whatever plans his captors had for him. If they expected him to talk, they better think again.

Memory stirred, and the breath hitched in his throat. _'No, impossible.'_ Then his captor sauntered in, spinning a gold coin on her finger. Her face could have been granite for all the emotion it showed. Shame burned through him like Greek fire. Then came desperation.

' _No, not like this. Not by a woman's hands! There's no honor in this!'_

"Frumentarius," she said, tossing the coin aside. "Posing as a courier. Smart, if predictable."

"Kill me or shut up, woman!"

"I will kill you," she told him, matter-of-factly. She picked up a syringe from the open med-kit on a table nearby and uncorked the needle. Clear liquid shot up for a moment as she tapped the plunger.

"But first, you will talk. You will tell me what you know of the six packages, and who carried them."

"Make me, profligate," he spat. He forced the desperation down, walling it up behind pride and determination. Then the needle broke his skin, and liquid fire shot through his body, beyond the scope and meaning of the word agony.

Daniel Wyand, known elsewhere as Germanicus, Legion Frumentarius, screamed.

Later, Sarah undid the bindings and the Frumentarius flopped forward, cracking his head on the cold floor tiles. Only a little blood trickled out. Turning to the table, she placed the spent syringe into the box and recovered a small bottle of pills labeled with 'Rad-X'.

Careful not to touch her skin to the contents, she let one drop on the corpse and watched with only vague interest as the chemicals reacted and started eating away at Wyand's flesh, leaving most of his clothes untouched.

Then she tapped her ear. "Harkness, this is Lyons." A few moments of silence stretched, broken only by a faint sizzling as the Frumentarius' tissues were disassembled down to atomic components.

"No, I haven't found it yet," she said, "but I found a copy of the delivery receipt in Primm. Package six was the Chip, bound north to the Strip through the I-15. I'll be heading there next." Silence. Sarah frowned.

"The NCR is a non-issue so far. One of the couriers hired for the job was Legion though. One of Vulpes's, yes – I know we accounted for his interference, but so far he knows less than we do about Courier Six's identity. I was thorough."

Silence. Sizzling. Sarah repacked the pills and tied the med-kit to her belt.

"No, the courier stamp on the delivery register belongs to the Followers. Probably a fund-raising run. It was a dead pick-up, nobody saw the Courier on this end but the Securitron."

She repacked the Frumentarius' bag with its sparse belongings and picked up the gold coin, examining the austere profile and the script underneath. 'Aeternit Imperi.' Sarah shook her head and packed it too.

"Mr. House, or one of the family heads of the Strip working for him. And Johnson Nash, the local Express officer, confirmed they were hired by a Securitron with a cowboy face. That's our guy."

The pills' work was almost done, she noticed. Sarah unslung her rifle from the hanger by the door and replaced it across her back, tugging at the strap. Looking around for anything else she might have missed, she nodded to herself.

"So far, I'm under the radar. And I've something for you. An Eyebot, a Duraframe Enclave model from back East. Looks like the Wanderer failed to destroy them all when he nuked himself on the Crawler."

Sarah stopped at that, then shook her head as if to clear it from cobwebs. She knelt by the pile of empty clothes and balled them up into a bundle she tucked under her arm. The Eyebot chirped at her as she walked out of the detention wing, but Sarah tilted her head toward the entrance and continued, trusting the robot to follow. It did, if after a moment's hesitation.

"Exactly. I'll try and crack the records on the way to the Strip. I'll contact you when I have something. You keep me updated on the robot, I'd like a face to go with the Followers' stamp."

Outside, she dropped the Frumentarius' belonging into a hole in the ground, then used a flat slab of scrap metal torn from a car to heap the soil onto it. She then threw the impromptu shovel away and dragged the skeleton of a rocket car over the hole to conceal the disturbed dirt from sight, wiping the tracks away. It was overkill, as any traveler would be more interested in looting the dead Jackals strewn inside and outside the station, or avoiding the carrion eaters that'd flock to the feast soon, but she'd always choose certainty over chance if given the chance.

Satisfied, she patted her hands to shake off the film of sand and rust and walked into the desert, ED-E trailing her a little way back.

"One last thing. I've met someone in Primm. He carried an energy weapon I couldn't identify. The left arm was prosthetic but indistinguishable to the naked eye. Yes, a perfect copy on the outside. Claims to be amnesiac, calls himself John Doe, but he has the same regenerative boost as that last batch of Infiltrators. No, I don't think he's lying. He's gunning for Vegas, so I'll keep an eye on him. You search for their base. They never move solo."

* * *

 _ **AN:**_ _Edited on 30/04/17. My thanks to_ _ **Excisium**_ _for proofreading._

 _Edit#2, 27/04/18, by **PartyPat22.**_


	4. 4) When The Whiskey Ropes You In

**Chapter 4: When The Whiskey Ropes You In**

Ranger Jackson turned back to the ominous pile of paperwork glaring up from his desk as the umpteenth – and hopefully last – caravaneer of the day shut the door on the way out a little more forcefully than necessary.

' _I told Knight to stop forwarding the complaints to my desk. Must be filling his pockets with all the greasing coming his way.'_

It was telling that a high-ranking officer accepting bribes was the least of the problems on his hands, and one he couldn't afford to tackle, not yet. He was short of personnel in the first place, and for all his faults – Jackson cringed at the mere thought of the man's preferences – Major Knight kept the Outpost running as much as Jackson did.

But he was a headache for another time. First, it had been the escaped convicts, these Powder Gangers ransacking the region and crippling trade and supply lines. Because when some douche politico at the Hub had the revolutionary idea of putting raiders and slavers close to huge amounts of dynamite, common sense was on vacation.

' _That it took the convicts that long to blast their way out is a monument to their incompetence.'_

Of course, the task of restoring order fell on his shoulders, but all his requests for more soldiers, rather than the greenhorns fresh from boot camp usually sent his way, got unsurprisingly lost in the maze of NCR bureaucracy, a place even Knight failed to navigate. But Jackson was nothing if not a resilient man, a Black One Veteran Rangers and one of the highest ranked Rangers in the NCR Army proper. And so, he made do.

Then Camp Searchlight went dark two days prior. The last transmission from a patrol from Forlorn blabbed of a ghost city choked by radiation.

An hour later, half the Outpost had heard of the news from a panicked comms officer and Jackson was besieged from all sides by caravaneers and his own soldiers demanding answers he didn't have.

The Ranger rubbed his tired eyes, his throat itching for a drink. The mooing of brahmins waltzed in from the small window behind him, topped occasionally by the raised voices of caravaneers arguing with the soldiers or among themselves. Evening and nighttime would only change the instruments, silencing the brahmins in favor of the drunken clamor of dozens of frustrated caravaneers drinking the Outpost's supply of alcohol dry.

Which only engendered more attrition between the soldiers and the merchants, filling the brig to the brim every night.

' _At least, if Lacey keeps making so much money, she won't have any more excuse to keep the cantina in the barracks. Might be the only good thing out of this mess.'_

The door to his office swung open once more and Jackson groaned.

"Stuff it, Jackson. This is the victor's welcome I get for doing your dirty work?"

"Ghost. Please, not today," he sighed as she plopped down on a chair and crossed her boots on his desk. "Just make this quick and go catch some sleep. I need you back on your perch first thing in the morning, watching the highway. And no roughing up the guests."

Where he half-expected and half-dreaded some sassy comeback, Ghost's pale face turned somber and she removed her shades. Only then did he notice the dark circles under her eyes.

"Sleep my ass. I'll need alcohol after yesterday, no kidding. A lot of it."

At that, Jackson brow sailed high up. Ghost was a purist, and he relied on her for it despite her abrasive attitude. Sarsaparilla was the furthest she went most nights. He fished out a transcription of Hayes' radio report from yesterday's pile of documents and quickly re-read it, then frowned at the other Ranger.

"Seems things turned out quite well. Minimal losses. Better than we expected, actually."

Ghost, who'd been clearing her glasses as she waited, rolled her eyes. "Yeah, more greenhorns survived to go get hacked apart by Caesar at Forlorn Hope. Yippee-ki-yay."

"That's war, Ghost," Jackson replied flatly, and mentally sighed. Ghost was confrontational and snappy at best from the day the Chief saddled him with her. Always complained they were sitting with their 'thumbs up their asses' while the Mojave went to shit, to quote one of her classics. Jackson figured some action would do her good.

Apparently, he'd missed the mark with her. Again.

"You're still hung up for 1st Recon?" Ghost bristled visibly at the question, but Jackson held her glare. She might have recruits soil their breeches, but he'd seen too many Rangers like her – volunteers who didn't get the recognition they felt they deserved and so gave grief to anyone around them – to be intimidated. "They'll draft you up next rotation and I'll be able to finally breathe."

"You'd be way less snarky if you'd seen Eddie and his bodyguards after Doe was done with them," she snapped and made to stand, but a glare from Jackson had her sit down again, albeit begrudgingly.

He grimaced as the dots connected. "Hayes tells it that he contracted a couple of mercenaries to help with the hostage situation in Primm. Had the town pool their caps to pay them, at least. I take this Doe is one of them? He tagged along to the CF?"

"Yeah, the gal left the day before we reached the town. And from the bit of melodrama we walked in to, you wouldn't tell the man was a fucking psycho!"

Jackson picked up the report again. "There's no particular mention of the merc here, other than ."

"Probably because the lieutenant was too preoccupied with puking his guts out. You trust that piece of paper more'n my word now, Jackson?" Ghost snarled, but her hands shook. She looked down and curled them into fists. "Shit. I've seen legionaries with more mercy than he had in his pinky. And he's here now. Here at the Outpost!"

"Alright. Ghost? Tell me everything. From the beginning."

* * *

"Another new face at the Outpost," the bartender greeted him when John reached the counter after much wedging and shouldering. She gave him a once over and wrinkled her nose in distaste. "What will you have?"

"Alcohol," he grunted. "Whiskey. Vodka. Whatever you've got." After a moment's thought, he added. "Leave the bottle."

The bartender hummed in appreciation and scooped out a dusty bottle from the top shelf. The dark spirit sloshed tantalizingly when she placed the bottle in front of him and asked for some outrageously absurd number of caps.

He paid without protest and shouldered his way back through the crowd pressing around the counter. The reek of booze and sweat saturated the air, but there was no mistaking the blood on his duster and armor. It actually did much of the work for him, shutting up more than one bold caravaneer or soldier who had something to say about his strong-arm tactics.

A minute later he commandeered the last empty table in the room, glared away the competition and uncorked the bottle, pouring a first, generous drink.

Then he let the hubbub of too many people too much into their cups and cramped in too small a space wash over him as he did his best to join the middle category.

" _\- a nuke, I tell you! The Brotherhood must'_ _ve found some pre-war stash. It's the Steel Scourge all over -"_

" _\- fuck're you sayin', Clem? It was the Legion. Everyone knows we kicked the tin cans outta Mojave. My cousin was at Helios One –"_

" _\- stuck here to watch the big shots saunter by! See anyone tell the Gun Runners, Crimson Caravan, or Gunderson's cronies the roads ain't safe?"_

"– _we do like those fellas from Vault City two days ago. If we stick together, form a big group, Jackson will let us pass – "_

Half the bottle later, John's stomach was alive with the burn of alcohol but the room refused to start spinning. He watched hollowly as two troopers grabbed a caravaneer drunk beyond sense and threw him out of the door. The two met his look and John saw one whisper something in the other's ear, desert-beaten faces studying him with narrowed eyes.

John toasted silently to them, fervently hoping they would catch offense and try to evict him from his seat. Under the table, his left hand closed into a fist.

Then someone plopped in the seat in front of him, and eye contact was broken.

John saw red, but this time it had nothing to do with uncontrollable emotion. The woman's hair was red, redder than arterial blood, red like dancing flames. She tossed a rangy duster on the only other vacant seat and planted her cowboy boots over it, stretching her legs, then placed another bottle-and-glass set on the table. John's eyes flickered to the shotgun hanging across her back by a leather strap, a leather strap crossing her chest and somehow leading his eyes to the camisole she wore, and the amount of cleavage it revealed –

"Lookin' for trouble, cowboy?" she asked as she brought the drink to her lips. Whiskey, he noticed. Grey eyes studied him from under the rim of a rattan cowboy hat sporting a comprehensive collection of holes and as many patches.

"Table's full," he replied flatly, then downed another shot.

"Bullshit. I ain't drinkin' standin' 'cause someone wants to be a sad drunk all alone."

John frowned at her, then at the bottle that was emptying too fast while he was still too sober. "Do what you want."

"You betcha." He could hear the smirk in her voice. "'Sides, at the rhythm you're goin', you'll have to go fetch another bottle soon, or they'll throw ya out soon enough. Then table's mine."

He grunted, not about to fall for the hook. A few minutes later, his bottle was empty and John was still too sober for his own liking. Opposite to him, a rosy blush was spreading on the woman's cheeks, but her hand didn't tremble or sway once. John looked down at his. Only the right shook, and feebly at that.

"Sounds like ya got scooped," she said. John glared at her, then picked her bottle and poured himself one.

"Sonofabitch!" she cursed, "That's breakin' the Caravan Code." Yet, she didn't move for her gun or to call the troopers over.

"So what?" he downed the whiskey, then almost choked on it as fire scoured his throat. She had an ugly laugh, the kind that was all snorts.

"That's karma for ya. Anyway, you break the Code, you gotta pay up." One hand disappeared under her suede jacket and reemerged holding a deck of cards, thick and flayed at the edges from use. "Game?"

John shook his head. Her face split into a Cheshire grin.

"Drink it is, then." Without another word, she stood up and waded into the crowd, leaving her hat as a placeholder. John watched her go, then poured himself a double from her bottle. It clinked empty when he put it back on the table.

The crowd parted then. A man with an impressive handlebar mustache and mirrored shades took the place the redhead had vacated without bothering to ask. John took in the ammo belt bandoleer, the Winchester repeater at his shoulder and the way everyone moved out of his way. This one meant trouble.

' _It's depressing that I can still think so clearly_ _.'_

"John Doe?"

John nodded, meeting his eyes behind the shades. The man droned on, "I'm Ranger Jackson. I'm in charge of this brahmin pen. Ranger Ghost says you were at Primm, and then at the CF."

"I did it for the money," John recited. "Ask Major Knight. My tag says 'mercenary'. And I have yet to see a cap for the prison."

"Yeah, forget about it." John's head snapped up. "Lieutenant Hayes had no authority to contract mercenaries in the first place. Still, you helped and spared some of my boys an early grave, so I'll let you walk away in the morning."

John's eyes narrowed. A flush was rising up his neck like the morning tide. "I'm sorry?"

"I hope you are," Jackson deadpanned. "You attacked an army officer in the middle of a military operation. Regulations say I should toss you into the brig. Consider yourself warned." The Ranger tipped the rim of his hat and stood. "Safe travels, Butcher."

John was on his feet before the Ranger took a step away. "What did you call me?"

"Butcher," the Ranger repeated, unapologetically. "Courtesy of what you did to Eddie and his thugs at the prison. The boys came up with it." Jackson tipped down his shades. "Suits you better than a fake name." Jackson never touched his gun, but all around them, imbibed hands inched closer to revolvers and rifles.

' _It would be quick. Just long enough to shove my hand down his throat, and then it would be over.'_

"Hey there, Brotherhood Scribe. Leave my bodyguard alone, will ya?" John blinked. The redhead beelined through the still crowd, a bottle of whiskey in each hand.

' _That must have cost some serious money,'_ was his first through. Then she was between them and handed him the alcohol. Bemused, he took it without protest.

"Miss Cassidy," the Ranger sighed. John's opinion of the woman instantly rose a notch. "I didn't know you'd hired this man. However, one man is not enough to clear Cassidy Caravans for departure. The roads aren't safe. And Mr. Doe here will be leaving in the morning in any case."

"Then it's lucky I sold Cassidy Caravans to Alice McLafferty just this mornin'." For a moment, silence ruled unchallenged over the cantina. Then the hubbub exploded the point that John struggled to hear his own thoughts. "I was gettin' tired of roughin' up your boys anyway, Jackson," she half-shouted above the pandemonium, but her words were cold. "No caravan, no blockade."

Jackson stood silently for a moment and John mirrored him. He itched to slap the Ranger some, but the moment had passed, and he found himself more in control. Then Jackson nodded, bid them safe travels and walked away.

"Ah, showed the Brotherhood Scribe where to stick his 'regulations and blockades'. Pansy." The woman winked at him, then motioned to the door. "Wanna head out? Can't drink with too many eyes on me."

' _I bet.'_ John pushed the thought away. "Why did you do that?" he asked instead.

"'Cause Jackson stranded me here while some shitstains burned my caravan to ash, that's why." She glared at the Ranger's retreating back. "'Cause I'm drinkin', and I'm an angry, spiteful drunk. And because I actually wanna hire ya as a bodyguard."

"Not interested."

She arched an eyebrow. "Don't you wanna hear what I have to say first? You kinda owe me for savin' your ass there."

John shrugged, sitting down again. "Sorry, but there's somewhere I have to go. I can't take detours."

"Like you're doin' right now, gettin' robbed blind by Lacey for colored water and stealin' my booze to recover your manliness?"

John scowled, then uncorked one of the two bottles and brought it to his lips. He ignored the smirk tugging at the corners of her lips and waited for her to lose interest and the alcohol to kick in.

After a few more minutes of uncompanionable silence under too many stares, John sighed in defeat.

"Alright. What's this about?"

"I told ya already," she said. She pointed at him, then at Fritz hanging by the strap from his chair. "You and your gun for a little trek north."

"I-15 is closed. Deathclaws, they say." John suppressed a flinch when exactly who had said that popped up in his mind. She didn't seem to notice. "And I'm taking the long way around anyway."

"That makes two of us." There was a pause as she drank directly from the bottle. "Ha, this shit's good. Worth every cap. Anyway, I ain't so many cards short of a full deck to go prancin' in deathclaws' huntin' grounds. Saw one of them critters once and that's enough for me. There's a fuckin' reason there's 'death' in their name."

John nodded. In the slight haze finally enveloping his mind, it didn't surprise him when he recalled flashes of the mutated Jackson Chameleons. Big specimen, seen from up close. Some were still alive, more dead and blasted to pieces. _'Dunno what's worse: jaws, horns, tail, claws or that they're bulldozers just too fast to be funny.'_

She took his silence as encouragement. "So, east it is. On the Nipton Highway, past Little Gomorrah and then up until we reach Vegas Boulevard. My stop is somewhere there. Four, five days, tops, without trouble."

At that, John snorted in his bottle. "Someone once said trouble tends to follow me."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Who's that?"

"Someone who hates my guts. Also, the man who named me."

The woman laughed at that. "Named ya? What are you, two?" Her face darkened. "Or were you, you know, a slave or part of some nutjob cult that worships radiation?"

"I wish," he said, then tapped the large scar across his temple. Hair still refused to grow there. "I was shot twice in the head. Turns out I got amnesia from that."

"Sure, and I'm the almighty Caesar. Try another."

"Ave." A passing caravaneer shot him a panicked look that John matched until the man broke contact first.

"Two shots to the head," John repeated. "I only woke up a fortnight ago. The doctor who patched me up said I was a John Doe." He shrugged to conceal his discomfort. Why was he saying that again? "It sort of stuck."

She tilted her hat backward, whistling softly. "Well, I'll be damned. That's some story. You know – well, _remember_ – who shot ya?"

"I remember a jacket. Checkered white and black. Pretty boy with sleek hair too, from what they told me."

"Tacky as hell. Sounds like a Vegas boy alright," she scoffed. "Nobody with an ounce of sense in their noggin would be caught dead paradin' around like that around here. Unless they were Kings or softened by four walls around them all the time, that is. So, bound for Vegas? 'Cause we're headin' the same way then."

John shook his head. "Novac first. Bastard was going there with some Khans. From there, I don't know yet." _'But everyone seems to think checkered suit hails from Vegas, so I might as well try.'_

"Khans are always bad news, even after Bitter Springs. Still, Novac's on the way to where I need to go."

"Why?" At the woman's puzzled look, John swallowed another drink and elaborated, "Why me? You're free to go anytime, and you have the caps to pay for any armed help. Spread the word among the guards who've been here the longest and you'll have a line in less than an hour."

"Soft men, all of them," she scoffed. She leaned forward, elbows on the table. John was very quick to lift his eyes from her chest to her face. "I've been in this business for a decade, through bad and worse. Walked up and down the whole West Coast a number of times. Shady Sands, Vault City, 'Cisco, the Boneyard and Reno. You name it, I've been there. Even ventured up all the way to Old Arroyo, paid my respects to the Chosen One's old home. Point is, after a while you learn to tell the halfwits and fools in love with their own badassery from the real deal. You don't last long, otherwise." Her expression fell, and she took a long, long swig from the bottle.

When she put it down, it clinked, empty. Her cheeks were blossoming, afire, but she spoke with barely the faintest slur. John felt compelled to empty his own. What had she called it? _'Reclaiming my manliness, right.'_

"Now, the good ones go where they get a steady income. That means Gun Runners, Alice fuckin' McLafferty and the Crimson Caravan, the Brahmin Barons, or the Families from Reno. Sure as hell not to the small fries like me or everyone else in this dump."

"There's safety in numbers."

"Tell that to Eddie and his Powder Gangers," she said, giving him a pointed look. John flinched. "Please. The more I hire caps upfront, the more are gonna line up to slit my throat while I sleep. Or worse."

The pounding in his head grew worse, and not the good kind of worse. It was more insistent. Demanding. John gripped the edge of the table with both hands and closed his eyes. It didn't work. The darkness only made the memories clearer, more vivid.

The screech of metal brought him back to the present.

He felt the collective weight of every eye in the cantina on him. Some were inching away, towards the doors. Others pushed closer to see what just happened. John glanced at the woman and saw a flicker of fear cross her face. She rallied quickly.

"You alright, cowboy?"

John looked down at his hands. The right was oozing blood from an open cut on his palm, smearing the rusting table.

The left was gripping a chunk of said table, the metal balled up into his fist. His fingers had left holes where they'd pierced the lightweight piece of scrap.

John rose, shouldered Fritz and made his way to the door. Nobody dared to stop him.

* * *

The approaching crunch of gravel under boots shook John out of his contemplation of the night sky. The lingering smell of alcohol and the clinking of bottles revealed the newcomer's identity before she even spoke.

"You're persistent," he said.

"I'm a Cassidy. Runs in the blood." He caught a glimpse of her leaning against the skeleton of another car. She had put the duster on, hat tilted back and eyes closed as she enjoyed the brisk breeze blowing from the desert.

"Why do you insist? I told you no already." He propped himself up on an elbow to glance at her, then he flattened again on the roof of the old car he'd picked.

"I'm used to the other way 'round, usually," she jibed. "Look cowboy, don't think too much into it. Between you and that rabble, I just know you're the less likely to stab me in the back first fuckin' chance you get. That's all."

"And how do you know that? Read my mind?"

"Not yet, but the whole Outpost's been talkin' about you ever since they radioed Eddie and the Gangers were history. Stormed his office yourself, didn't ya?"

He stiffened at that. The night's chill evaporated. Jackson's moniker echoed in his head. "You heard what he called me. What part of that story makes you think I'm bodyguard material?"

She didn't say anything for a while. They were far enough from the outpost that the ruckus from the cantina was barely a buzz, just above the desert's white noise, but close enough that the light from the lamps strapped to the statues lapped nearby, keeping them in sight of the soldiers surveilling the steep approach to the Outpost.

He was about to call it a night when she found her voice.

"I heard the rest of the story too. About your girlfriend, the one the convicts killed." John lurched to a sitting position, glaring at her. She held her ground, unapologetic. "I know why you did what you did. They say it was brutal, but at least you made 'em pay. I tried to drink myself into a stupor."

John turned the words around in his head and self-disgust welled up into him. _'No. She was a victim. I'm the executioner. The Butcher. The Ranger was right. It fits like glove.'_

"That's the man I want to watch my back," she continued, "for a hefty sum, 'course. And a bonus, if we stumble upon somethin' fishy and underhanded."

John drew the custom N99. Her shotgun was in her hands in a flash, but John just held the gun against the light, studying the side of the barrel and the crude, thin letters he'd carved into it with the tip of his combat knife.

Sunny.

' _The Gangers are dead. Now it's Victor's turn, and the checkered bastard's.'_

He exhaled, then slid off the car, picking up his duster and shaking it. "How much are we talking about?"

The shotgun's muzzle inched down. "Standard wage. Three hundred, plus expenses." John's brow shot up, but her grin only widened. "You, however, fucked with the Caravan Code. And I've brought the alcohol. So here's the deal.

You drink me under the table, I cover your tab and add whatever sum Jackson kept from you for the Ganger business."

John considered how little the alcohol seemed to affect him. A self-deprecating smirk found its way to his lips "And if you win?"

"You agree to half the fee. No bonuses, and expenses not included." Her hand shot out between them. John waited a moment, then shook it.

"Deal."

Her smile turned sardonic, and she produced two glasses from her duster. "No backin' off when you wake up with the worst hangover of your life."

* * *

He was back in the cave, elbow deep into another's man gut. Fading body heat tingled his fingers, but wherever he looked, there was only darkness. Still, he knew he was in the cave. The how wasn't important.

Whispers and lights flashed. He tried to move his arms, but only one limb answered. The blare of a siren followed, echoing in the roar of rotor blades on a quick take off. He was running along flickering corridors, endless and identical. Screens and blades trailed his every step, throwing horrors at him.

 _"- will recover him. Intercept -"_

The world spun, crackling with electricity. He was in a spacious office, austere with lost authority. The walls and ceiling were painted with blood, red and slick and dripping.

With every step, his boots squelched on guts. Bones snapped under his soles. Bodies lay sprawled all around him, hacked at and half-melted, limbs ripped from their sockets; the steel grey, desert browns, crimson reds, and prisoner blues of their armor and clothes were soaked with blackened blood.

A man in prisoner blues slouched on a broken desk. His twisted head stared up at the ceiling with a bewildered expression. John reached out to touch him, but the head started turning around again, bones creaking and ligaments snapping.

Sunny smiled up at him. _"- you hear me, John? Please, tell him to -"_

The nothingness that was his world began to rock as if someone had closed it in a box and started shaking it around. Sensation crept in, then awareness hit, and John – was that his name? – wished he was dead.

" - ise and shine, sleepin' beauty. Jackson's rallyin' torches 'n' pitchforks."

Each word was a railway spike shot into a cluster of nerves. John tried to speak, but his chapped lips remained glued shut. His throat was in the grasp of an angry behemoth with a passion for chokeholds. He managed to pry one eye open, but the indistinct whiteness made him wish for the mercy of another couple shots to the head. With a shotgun, this time.

Other senses made themselves known. His mouth stung with leftover puke. Some had trickled out of the corner of his mouth and pooled around his face, sticking it to something grimy. His attempts at breathing met partial success, the glob clogging his sinuses shot down his throat. John found himself choking while warding off another wave of nausea at the same time.

"Out!" someone shouted, and John's brain wept. "I've just finished scrubbing this place clean! Out!"

"Fine, fine. Jeez. Don't twist your panties into a knot," the first voice said. "Hey, you! Yes, you. Grab him from the other side. Fucker weighs a ton!"

He was drifting, weightless, his only thought on the two masses warring inside his gullet for the right of passage. It all flew out of his mind when he hit the ground – or was it the sky? – hard, gravel scraping at his hand and knees and face, and the stalemate was broken.

"Trust a soldier – Sonofabitch!"

After the spasms and dry retching abated, what remained of him felt as weak as a kitten. He managed a one-second peek that failed to encompass the sheer size of the mess on the ground, but what higher mental functions survived the onslaught told him, in no uncertain terms, that his artificial arm and a hand holding him by his right shoulder were all that stood between him and a face-first dive.

"Well, this settles it," the voice pronounced, "you're an awful drunk."

John could only grunt in agreement.

* * *

A vile concoction – cazadores' antivenom mixed in a jug of brahmin milk – that made his insides beg for oblivion, a tour to the bathroom, and another one with a mop at the scene of the crime later, John felt only slightly worse than the first time he'd woken up in Goodsprings.

"You up to it?" Cassidy asked, gaze roaming over the wide expanse of southern Mojave. John scowled at her. Guzzling down the sheer volume of alcohol this woman had the night before – up to the point where John's memories degraded to mush, at least – with no consequences a dose of 'hangover brew' couldn't fix ought to be impossible. And yet, there she stood.

"Yeah," he grunted, narrowing his eyes at Nipton Highway. The baking heat steamed off the asphalt, boiling him into his armor even that early in the morning. John dreaded midday. "I've been through worse. Shot in the head, remember?"

"Well, that's reassurin'. Now, a couple of ground rules." She turned to him, face blank. "Since I handed ya your ass yesterday, by the authority of the Code, you're my bitch."

John arched an eyebrow, shock rising and receding in the span of a few seconds. They stared at each other for a long minute, then she huffed, "Anyone ever told ya you're no fun?"

"Can't remember."

"… Touchè." She looked away, then swung back. "So, ground rules. Take all of your maiden-need-protection notions and toss 'em out of the window." She tapped the butt of her shotgun. "This baby ain't for show, alright? I hired you for when things get really airy."

"I also hired you all the way to my caravan. Which means, north of Novac." John frowned, a protest on his lips, but Cassidy nipped it in the bud. "Lemme finish. I've got no issue with taking a day or two to snoop around for the fucker that shot you. But any longer than that, and we're bound north. Caravan's probably a cazadores' nest already, and I need to check on things. _Comprendes_?"

John was about to say that no, he wasn't fine with that. _'But how long will I need, anyway? Checkered suit is one picturesque bastard. No way he passed by unnoticed. One day is plenty of time.'_

"Alright, fine by me. Now we'd better get moving. We're wasting daylight."

"Wait." She offered her hand. "My Ma taught me manners. I'm Cass."

"John Doe, but you already know that." It took more than a moment for his mind to parse what she said. "Only Cass?"

She rolled her eyes. "Suppose not. Full name's Rose of Sharon Cassidy." She shot him a filthy look filled with ugly promises. "My pops was fond of cheap pre-war books 'bout dirt pilgrims. And that's the last we're speakin' of it."

They walked in silence along the side of the highway to avoid being cooked in their boots. John found that walking improved his general state of dereliction, but avoided mulling too much over the absurdly quick pace his body seemed to recover in general. Multiple headshots, a flamethrower to the face; now, enough whiskey to fell a horse but apparently barely sway Cassidy. Searching his memories and finding only blanks still hurt, especially when his brain was still a booze sponge, fast healing or not.

Cassidy wasn't in the mood for chatting. The few times he stole a glance at her, she looked deep in thought, the only sounds to leave her mouth wordless murmurs. Not wishing to intrude, he kept his eyes to their surroundings, but there was little in the way of remarkable sights. Desert to the left, desert to the right, swirling sand and dirt everywhere. Further off in the distance, hills and mountain ranges as far as the eyes could wander.

John didn't make the mistake of underestimating the wasteland again, not after the close call with the radscorpions outside Primm.

It was Cassidy who broke the silence.

"Road's awfully empty today."

"How's that strange with all those caravans stranded at the outpost?"

She shook her head. "Jackson's keepin' caravans from crossin' into the Mojave, not the other way 'round. With I-15 closed, all them caravans from Vegas oughta take the Highway to reach the Outpost and cross into California."

"It's still early. Nipton is still hours away. Might be we still have to meet the early risers."

"Maybe," she echoed. "And Little Gomorrah sure has its fancy ways to keep visitors hooked. Still, business waits for no one. Those in a hurry or broke usually camp outside the town to get an early start."

"What's with the name?" Cassidy shot him an odd look. "Little Gomorrah. That doesn't sound promising."

"Depends what you're after." Her lips curled in distaste. "If it's cheap whores and cheaper booze 'cause you can't afford Vegas, then you're set. Town's a shit-hole, but a lot of caps that change hands there."

"I thought you were all for the booze, actually."

"Yep, that's me, right?" she chuckled, tipping the rim of her hat, "But I'd rather not be looked at like a chunk of meat at a starvin' cannibal's feast."

John nodded, at a loss for words. Silence relapsed between them for the next couple of hours. It was broken only by the growling of his stomach. Cassidy chuckled.

"You could've said it, you know, instead of scarin' every critter in a mile."

"It's nothing," John tried, but by God, he was starving. And then he remembered. Carried by the events, he had barely touched any food since the night Sunny went missing. "I'd like to sit down and cook something. I don't think I'd take well to K-rations right now."

"That military stuff?" Cassidy's face scrunched up in disgust. "Hell no, thank you. Can you cook?"

John shrugged. "Haven't the foggiest beyond steaks. You?"

"Why should I? 'Cause I'm a woman?" John sighed and she punched him in the shoulder. The artificial one. He stopped as Cass flinched in pain and surprise. Then she broke into a cussing fit, cradling her hand close to her chest.

"What the hell are you made of? It's like punchin' a slab of steel!"

"I'll take that as a compliment," he said flatly, buying time. She glared. "Look, my left arm? It's prosthetic. And no, I haven't the faintest about what, how, or why."

Cass gaped slightly. Peering closer, her mouth snapped shut and she frowned. "You're sayin' all those rumors, they had it right? Bullshit. You're havin' me on, cowboy. It looks exactly like the other. What do you have under that duster, some kind of power armor?"

One halfway stripping later, John adjusted the straps to his pack around his shoulders again as he waited for the verdict.

"That's some serious shit!" she exhaled violently after she regained control of her jaw, her mouth working a mile a minute. "I mean, sure, everyone and their mom know 'bout those cyborgs the Brotherhood threw at the NCR during the war, but the closest thing I've seen was some egghead who stuck a Mr. Gutsy's arm into some poor fucker and paraded him around Gecko for a-while. This? Damn, those Brotherhood flunkies would sell their armor for a chance at ya."

"Take a breath before you run out of oxygen. And I'm no cyborg, it's just the arm."

She rolled her eyes, "Yep, figured as much. Or do you think I'd be badmouthin' them if I thought you were part of that posse? Doesn't matter. Those guys were freaks, but the Iron General's killed most of them anyway."

John thought for a moment, picking his brain for what he remembered of his talks with Doc Mitchell about local history. "I was told the Brotherhood had a presence here. A chapter, I think they call it? But that was before the NCR smashed them at Helios One."

"Some gotta have escaped, so there might be a few still around this far east of Lost Hills." She poked him in the arm. "But this looks like the real thing: nobody would give it a second look. Well, unless you punch through another table right under some scribe's nose or an Office agent's, or something like that."

John threw a look over his shoulder at the Ranger statues in the distance. "Yeah, I should avoid that. Thanks for the tip." Suddenly uncomfortable, he let his eyes wander over Lake Ivanpah's dry, cracked bed. "Any place close by to stop for a bite?"

"What do ya think? This ain't the Hub. No rest stops this far south of Novac, but there's an abandoned station maybe half an hour from here." Under the hat, her expression turned wistful. "Used to camp there when the Outpost was too cramped."

"Sounds good enough to me." John turned to set off again. Even his limited experience with people told him she had a lot on her plate, but he didn't want to pry. With his history at helping people – no, he wasn't going down that road right now.

She didn't follow. Grey eyes studied him from under a furrowed brow.

"What?"

"You got any other secrets I should know 'bout 'fore we start, cowboy?"

' _I took a blast from a flamethrower straight to the face and walked away none the worse from it half-a-day later.'_ "Nothing I can think of, no."

* * *

 _If anyone wonders why Cass hasn't heard of John's pumped up healing speed from the rumor mill, it's because nobody who returned to the Outpost knew about the degree of the wounds he took. Sunny died, and Doc isn't one to blabber around. Ghost heard from Hayes though, but she only passed the info along to Jackson. Plenty of people were at the NCRCF though, so what happened there took precedence in the rumor mill._

 _Also, for anyone who may think John is a Gary Stu: I think I've made it clear he's riddled with issues and if one takes a look at the average Fallout PC, John pales in comparison. There's plenty of bigger fish in the sea. One got a mention in this chapter._

 _Edit, 08/05: My thanks to_ _ **Excisium**_ _for proofreading this chapter._

 _Edit, 12/05: Say together "Thank you_ ** _PartyPat22_** _for editing the chapter."_


	5. 5) A Fox in a Nest of Vipers

**Chapter 5: A Fox in a Nest of Vipers**

 _AN: Aaaand we're past the 200 views. Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed, Where last chapter saw a lot of dialogue ( I hope you liked how I tweaked Cass a little), here the focus will be on the action. Not entirely, because that's hard to pull off, but… you'll see._

 _There's a bit of jumping to and fro in time at the beginning of this chapter. To make things easier, Ghost's piece starts off a couple hours after from where we left John and Cass last chapter, then we jump back to them shortly after last chapter's ending._

 _The AU continues. Remember that your feedback is the best check I have._

* * *

 **MiA 5) A Fox in a Nest of Vipers**

Baking in the torrid midmorning heat, Ranger Ghost felt her blood turn to ice.

Glued to the binoculars for what felt like years, her eyes started to ache and throb. Her stomach, still churning from the unfamiliar misadventures of the previous night, twisted into knots.

She heard voices, but they seemed distant, as if filtered through wadding. She licked her chapped lips, then bit the inside of her cheek until she drew blood, both to repress that little nervous reflex and shake herself out of the shock.

It worked, and she had the time to notice the growing cluster of people at the dugouts under the Ranger Monument, soldiers and caravan hands alike. The night's animosities were forgotten as binoculars flashed in the sunlight. Faces turned ashen, and the wise travelers turned tail on wobbling feet, trickling towards the brahmin pens. Only a few of the greenhorns looked eager: those were the vindictive, the violent ones, or those too stupid to listen to the voice screaming in their heads.

Ghost had learned to listen to that primal voice. It had taken her through a tour against the Brotherhood, the liberation of Dayglow and the Mojave campaign, up to the First Battle of Hoover Dam. But even confronted with the worst of the Steel Scourge and the Malpais Legate, only rarely the command had been to flee and don't look back.

She heard the boardwalk creak. Jackson's hat emerged a moment later, long, controlled strides leading him up beside her.

She handed him the binoculars without a word and he stared at the black pillar of smoke towering over Nipton.

Ghost had to give it to the older man: his hand didn't shake as he handed back the binoculars. He addressed the throng downstairs with a clipped, authoritarian tone that revealed none of the dread Ghost felt piling up.

She could do nothing. Absolutely nothing but stand on her perch, level her rifle at the highway and pray. Pray for the poor sods at Nipton. Pray that the boys and girls on leave in that sty had the chance to fight back and die quickly. She prayed with words she hadn't practiced since childhood, but that now came unbidden, summoned by a time of her life she rarely thought back to.

Through the billowing black smoke, a crimson flag flapped on the roof of Nipton's town hall.

* * *

The sun was close to its peak when John and Cassidy approached the Nipton Highway's pit stop. The rusty skeleton of a large pre-war advertising billboard concealed the main structure from view until they almost stumbled into it. A small parking lot occupied by few cars led to the perimeter walls of a once long, squat brick building, now rundown. The ceiling had collapsed long ago but for sections at the corners and a precarious looking porch above the empty doorway.

Narrowing his eyes, John could distinguish the faint outline of the word 'Motel' in the porch's shadow, the only place where the wind hadn't peeled off the plaster completely over centuries of exposure. However, John's attention was soon commandeered by the current squatters.

There were three of them, two men and a woman, roasting meat skewers over a small campfire. They were looking in their direction already when John and Cassidy walked into view. Their faces were wary, their hands not too far away from the weapons on the ground beside them – a collection of 9mm, hunting rifles and machetes. They wore scrappy pieces of armor and rolled-up clothes thick and stiff with dirt, the same dirt caked on their gaunt faces; each spoke of a long time on the road with scarcely enough food, away from civilization. John saw their eyes linger on the rifle in his hands, then the men's shifted to Cassidy and lingered there a little longer.

The only woman gave him a sweet smile full of rotting teeth. "Easy, we want no trouble. Just passing by." She slowly picked up a skewer from the fire. "Coyote?"

John's stomach growled as the scent of roasted meat – for once, not human's – filled his nostrils and watered his mouth. His eyes traveled past the crouched woman and her mates to the building just behind them. Hollow windows stared back at him.

"I think we'll pass, much obliged," Cassidy answered for the both of them, taking a step backward. A part of John resented her– the one that answered to his aggressive stomach – but the rest of him was too preoccupied with keeping track of three pairs of hands and the insistent itch at the back of his neck.

"Your loss," she shrugged and bit down on the skewer. The two men did the same, blindly picking up their skewers as they kept their eyes on John's rifle and Cassidy's chest. She shifted uneasily, glancing meaningfully in his direction. He offered a small nod back. His attention jerked back to the campfire when one of the men hissed, sucking on his index.

"That's what ya get for staring," jibed the girl, and the man glared at her, lifting his other hand threateningly. The girl glared back, grinning viciously; her eyes found John and she gave him a once over like an eagle would running prey. The itch at the back of his neck kicked into overdrive.

John tackled Cassidy to the ground as the first shot exploded into his ears from behind them. Someone screamed in surprise, but he wouldn't know if it was the redhead or one of the raiders it belonged to. She hit the ground under him and he felt the violent exhale of her breath on his face, but he was already rolling away, towards the three raiders levelling their weapons in their direction. Sunny kicked with recoil in his hands.

He aimed on pure instinct, emptying half the mag in a downward arch as he sprung up from his roll. The man with the singed finger died with a curse on his lips, a bullet tearing through lips, teeth, palate, and spine, killing him on the spot. The woman beside him cried out in pain a split moment later as bullets pierced her belly and thigh; she crumpled on one side, thrashing her head and dropping her gun.

The third raider jumped at him, bringing the machete down on his throat. John caught the blade in his left hand, but surprise didn't stop the man's following punch to connect solidly with the side of his head. His vision swam and John swung back blindly. The raider's temple cracked under Sunny's grip and John exploited the opening to press the gun into his face and fire twice.

Warm, sticky blood gushed onto his face. John pushed the body off him in time to be deafened by the roar of a shotgun's discharge. Cassidy ducked behind a nearby car, bracing her back against it and reloading with a steady hand. Small craters pockmarked abandoned cars on the other side of the highway were her buckshot forced the ambushers to dive for cover.

John emptied the rest of the mag at the first head that poked out and slid beside her. He reloaded, then produced a red stick from a pocket of his duster. Cassidy glanced at him as more shots crashed into their cover and her face split into an evil grin.

"Now, that's what I like to see."

She emptied another shell, pinning in place an enterprising ambusher that was trying to slip to the side for a better angle - or hightail out of there. John didn't care: he watched the fuse ignite, counting down the seconds before he threw it over the car in an arch.

The explosion tore off a chunk of the standing wall, kicking up a veritable cloud of dust. John rose from his crouch and crossed the road swiftly, Fritz's stock against his shoulder. Two point-blank triple-beams later, thin lines of smoke rose from two more bodies.

The shotgun boomed again. John spun, weapon searching for more aggressors. He only saw Cassidy reload, looking down dispassionately at the wounded woman John had left behind, now missing the top of her head.

"What? You got a problem with this?" she bit out, noticing his look.

"Hardly, but there could be more around. She'd have known."

Cassidy shrugged and knelt beside the corpse, slipping a 9mm gun inside her own duster, then patted her pockets for spare ammo. "Might be. I scavenge then, you keep watch."

"I expect a share," he pointed out, pacing a few feet away. He cast an uneasy glance at the desert around them. "I did most of the work anyway."

"That's what I pay you for, remember?" she chuckled, then moved over to the next corpse. "I'm sure glad you're such a pansy drinker. Best deal in recent history and – Fuck!"

"What?!" Cassidy was staring at something on the dead man's arm. It looked like a tattoo. John edged closer, but after a moment she spat to the ground and resumed her scavenging, cursing.

"Vipers. These fuckers are Vipers."

He arched an eyebrow when she didn't elaborate further.

Cassidy gave him an odd look, then shook her head. "Right, you can't possibly know." She fixed her eyes on the body before her. "Well, long story short, nobody's seen the fuckers around for a while now. A good decade at least. Not since the Iron General started purgin' the Big Three." His quizzical look only intensified. "You know, the Big Three: Jackals, Vipers and your friends the Khans. Those here in the Mojave, the ones that jumped you, they're the ones that fled from with their tails between their legs. Vipers and Jackals? Not so lucky."

John considered the bodies, then shrugged. "You just said it: no solution is ever final. A few could have escaped East. Or maybe these ones heard of the stories and took the name for themselves. To try and scare traders, make their job easier."

Cassidy remained silent for a moment, but John could see her lips pursing under her hat. "Maybe. I dunno. You see, there was this old soldier back where I lived before my Ma passed away. Been places, seen things, the works. Among others, he was there when the General torched the Shrine and stomped on the Vipers' collective throat." Her eyes darkened. "Wouldn't talk about it 'till he was well into his cups, though. Said the Vipers were into some really creepy ritualistic shit, and not the usual dismemberin' and displayin' bodies on hooks and spears to mark their territories."

"Usual raider shit. Right."

She gave him a look and he clammed up. "There was this pit, he said, right in the middle of their big fuckin' camp. Inside, so many snakes you couldn't see the bottom. The Vipers revered them, if you can believe it. Tossed prisoners inside and watched them die. Then took the venom and drank it as some twisted rite of passage. If you survived, you were in. Pretty sick."

John listened, trying to picture the scene in his head. After a moment, he grimaced in sympathy. "Quite. Good riddance, I say. This General of yours, I think you already mentioned him. What's he, some NCR war-hero?"

Cassidy scoffed, a harsh, mocking sound. "'Some war-hero?'" She got to her feet, hands on her hips. "'Some war hero', he says. Ask the Enclave and the Brotherhood. Man's the biggest badass to walk the west coast this side of –"

"Wait," he stopped her, lifting a hand. "You hear that?"

"Hear what?" Cassidy asked, annoyed, then caught his look and picked up her shotgun.

"A whimper…" John trailed off, turning towards the rundown motel. "I think it came from inside." He moved past the redhead at a jog, Fritz at the ready, and closed in on the empty doorway.

"Hey! Come on out!"

Cassidy slid to the wall opposite to him. "Could be a trap. Another one of 'em."

"Could be, but we've been chatting for a while now. Maybe we weren't the first to pass through."

She nodded. After a moment, he heard another whimper from inside. John gestured at the redhead to circle around the motel, then slipped inside, sand and gravel crunching softly under his boots. He passed through an empty reception and followed the sound into a corridor. The stench of baking entrails had him quicken his pace. At the end of the corridor was some sort of recreational space or dining area, at least judging by the tables and size.

"What the – " The words died on his lips as the scene struck him.

The corpses of two bark radscorpions lay discarded in a small heap in a corner, their carapaces and stingers carved open. Two people were backed up against the far wall, a few meters apart and bound from head to toe. The man had collapsed to the side in a pool of his own dry vomit, eyes rolled in his sockets. John felt a familiar pain fire up in his chest, but then abate as he realized the man was long dead, very likely from earlier in the morning. Nothing he could have done for him.

The woman, however, was gasping, trying to gulp down some air in her state of semi-consciousness without any success. John covered the distance in two long strides and knelt beside her. His bowie sliced through the bindings holding her and he lowered her onto the ground, checking her pulse and finding it null at the extremities and neck. He slipped a hand under her top and searched for the tip of the heart. Her skin was scorching hot and clammy under his touch. In the few seconds it took him to realize her heart was not beating, her frantic gasps abated and she lay still.

The knife sliced through her top from neckline to navel and John jammed a stimpak right into her heart, spitting the hard-plastic cap away. Hands overlapping, he began giving her a heart massage, ignoring the snapping and cracking of ribs, watching her limbs and her face for any twitching. A minute later, he searched into his belt for another syringe and saw Cassidy stare at him from another doorway, an expression he couldn't read on her face.

"Come here and help me!" he barked, and the second empty syringe dropped to the side.

"She's dead," she whispered.

"You have adrenaline? Antivenom? Bastards poisoned her!"

Cassidy took a step towards him and shook her head. "She's gone."

"Like hell she is!" He started the compressions again. "Search the bodies outside. They must have something!"

Her hand was on his shoulder. The squeeze was light and hesitant as if she feared to break what she touched. John kept going, unheeding, his eyes burning red and his heart gripped into a vise. The woman jostled on the ground, grimy blue hair glued to her pale face.

"Stop now." More ribs cracked. "She's gone, cowboy. There's nothing you can do for her." John searched for another stimpak in his belt pouch. A hand closed around his but he jerked it away, glaring up, lips curling into a snarl. "John, stop. Please."

He paused, bemused. Cassidy was kneeling, shaking her head, eyes brimming with sympathy under her hat. John turned again to the other woman, the woman that needed his help, the person dying before him, but the haze was clearing from his mind and the same inner voice that recognized the man for dead before spoke again.

His left fist struck the ground, again and again, cracking tiles long-buried under two centuries of heaped, packed desert dirt. His shoulders shook with impotent anger and helplessness and he wished he had spared some of the raiders outside, only to put them through what their prisoners must have felt.

After a few moments, Cassidy got to her feet and gave his shoulder another squeeze before leaving the room. John knelt by the corpse's side for what felt like hours but was probably closer to minutes, then he too stood up, drew his knife and freed the other man from the bindings restraining the body.

The reek of urine, vacated bowels, and bile was almost overwhelming to his still somewhat queasy stomach, driving any thought of food and starvation from his mind. The man was heavier than he expected, but he picked the body up anyway rather than dragging it, and then laid him down beside the girl, closing his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said after a few moments of awkward silence and staring, "I've got nothing to dig a grave. I'll send someone for you from Nipton. Just wait a little longer."

A faint jingle caught John's attention as he lined up the man's body. Before he knew it, he was taking off the man's boots and a necklace fell into his palm. It was made entirely of caps, six or seven of them, each branded with a faint blue star, all strung together on a piece of knotted twine. John turned it in his hands, searching for a name, something to remember either of them by, but he found none.

' _I could keep the necklace. They're peculiar, in their own way,'_ he found himself thinking, only to be overcome with disgust the next moment. He slipped the necklace around the man's neck, well under his leather jacket and then put the boots back on.

Outside, Cassidy was waiting for him, looking off to the west.

"Those bastards removed the scorpions' glands and dosed the two of them. Some emulation of their pit," he seethed.

Cassidy nodded numbly and John was about to snarl at her when the wind brought the faint scent of smoke to his nostrils. Turning to the same direction the redhead was facing, John's eyes widened at the column of black smoke rising from Nipton just a few miles away.

* * *

John and Cassidy veered further into the desert, keeping the highway to their far left for orientation's sake. With Nipton's silhouette grew sharper under the pillar of smoke, the argument between them turned more and more volatile.

"There were raiders just hours away from the Outpost! How can you rule out there's not more sacking the city?"

Cassidy groaned in exasperation and rubbed her eyes. "Look, cowboy, I told ya. There's always a bunch of NCR soldiers in town. They keep the law, make sure their buddies on leave don't cause too much trouble. We don't need to butt in."

"There was an NCR platoon at Primm, too. Without Sarah and I, the place would be a ghost town by now." _'Another one.'_

"Yeah yeah, you're a big damn hero, I get it. That's why I hired you. _Hired!_ I say we go 'round it, we go 'round it. End of discussion."

"So you're willing to put the fire down to revelry out of hand? Seriously? For all we know, they could be butchering everyone right now! I say we go check."

Cassidy halted; momentum carried John forward a few more steps before he realized she wasn't following. A moment later she was in his face, jabbing a finger into his chest.

"Look, cowboy, I get where you're coming from. You've got guilt eatin' away at you for what happened to your girlfriend, who you knew for ten days total before she got herself killed in some half-assed attempt at playin' vigilante with a wrong deck."

The finger jabbed harder into his chest. John felt his hands ball into fists; impotent anger reignited, eager to find an outlet. Or better, a target. Another word, another mention of his _heroism_ , and he knew he was going to hit her.

"I've worked with a couple of the people in my caravan for almost a decade _._ A decade! You get the difference?" She spat to the side, and for a moment he thought _she_ was going to hit _him_. "So don't play the pity card on me. At least you got to bury her. My people's ashes are scattered to the four winds by now, if that!"

"Where were you then when –"

"Chasin' fuckin' ghosts!" she cut him short. "You think you're the only one who's let down someone?"

He saw red. The red of Cassidy's hair. The red in the warden's office at the prison, in the cave, splashed on a blast door. Her words reached him, muffled by the blare of sirens. "You wanna get yourself killed in some blockheaded search for redemption? Fine. Knock yourself out! But first you're gonna respect your contract, or I'm playin' whack-a-molerat with your ass. Are we clear?"

Red. Crimson.

"Are we fuckin _'_ clear, cowboy?"

"Run," he hissed.

She paused, stunned. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her back the way they came. Fritz almost teleported in his hands.

" _RUN!"_

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the protest die on her lips and her face turn ashen.

They advanced from the town and the desert both, running in formation. Two groups, nine strong each, all clad in red and black painted armor made of reinforced sports gear he recognized blearily from a poster somewhere. Some carried hunting rifles, shotguns and riot shields, but the bulk of their weaponry consisted of blades, metal shields and a veritable forest of javelins.

There were no faces to identify. Wraps, scarves, sports helmets, and goggles granted complete anonymity save for a couple of figures in the back sporting feathered helmets. One brandished the biggest sword John had ever seen.

His mind cleared and rebooted, putting a lid on raging emotions. A strange sense of eager calmness filled the sudden void. It summoned a single word out of the recesses of memory, a word more encompassing than a thousand concepts.

 _Legion_.

Cassidy was shouting, but he couldn't hear her. He barked at her to run, get lost, flee, then Fritz hummed and the microfusion breeder powering the gun kicked into overdrive.

Fiery lances blasted into the group of legionaries to the left. The first hit caught the leading legionary square in the chest, but the men behind him pushed him forward. The wounded man, smoke rising from his melted armor, stumbled forward another couple of steps before a blast to the face put him down for good.

His comrades didn't miss a step and trampled on the body rather than go around it. John squeezed the trigger, again and again, dropping another two; he switched to the other group, dropping more. Bullets whizzed past him and laser answered, but the legionaries were gaining fast, running at breakneck speed into the fire without hesitation.

He started running backward as more began taking potshots at him, but it was sporadic: most seemed hell-bent on closing the distance to engage. _''They want prisoners,'_ he realized as one of the plumed soldiers barked an order. John's shots grew wider as he moved and he shifted to the first group again, trying to flank him from the north now. but the soldiers – _'Slavers. Conquerors. Barbarians.' –_ had loosened their formation after the first few fell.

He felt the urge to look over his shoulder, to check and see if Cassidy had taken his advice, but he knew the first distraction would spell death. Then the legionaries in the lead hefted javelins and threw while running.

John saw their approach with distinct clarity, and couldn't help the smidgeon of awe at the accuracy and the skill it took to pull it off. The first javelin embedded into the asphalt where his leg had been a moment earlier. He sidestepped the second and slapped the third away with his left hand, but overextended; the fourth struck him in his exposed side, piercing leather armor like paper and tearing a long gash before pinning the tail of his duster to the ground.

' _It's nothing. Keep moving. Keep fighting!'_

John struggled out of the sheriff's garb and ducked out of the way from the next salvo of javelins. He had barely the time to flick the switch on Fritz's side before the Legion fell on him.

He shot the first legionary point-blank, the tri-beam burning through the riot shield and turning his torso into a scorched ruin. Then the rifle was kicked out of his hands, followed by two machetes aimed at his throat and armpit. He rolled backward, unsheathing both knives as he did and exploiting the momentum to jump back on his feet. He deflected a machete to the head and stepped aside a javelin thrust, then followed momentum and planted a roundhouse into the flank of the legionary in front of him.

The man recoiled, ribs snapping, but his place was taken by another just like him. John was pressed back by a hail of thrusts, swipes, and slices interwoven together as the legionaries tried to surround him. His head was pounding faster now, in harmony with his heartbeat, but it wasn't painful like all other headaches. Behind the curtain of self-control, John felt exhilaration bubble and build up.

John ducked low, sliced at a legionary's shins, and felt the kiss of steel across his back. His left elbow snapped the man's neck like a doll's; John grabbed the limp body as he spun and pushed it into the others.

A shield bashed into his side. He turned the stumble into a roll between two more legionaries, the bowie ripping one's thigh open as he came up, but then he was backpedaling again, parrying a blow and kicking the attacker into another legionary. A machete passed a hair's breadth from his cheek, taking away a few hairs of his two-days growth; John grabbed at the outstretched arm and the legionary's eyes widened behind his goggles as the combat knife pierced the underside of his chin, rolling back as steel pierced his brain.

Another slash drew John's blood, cutting deep into his right arm. John had to let go of the knife jammed into the corpse and weaved through another assault, crimson lines cutting through his armor and limbs. He tossed the bowie into his right hand and punched the distracted foe in front of him in the jaw, shattering it. The man didn't go down, though: he lunged with a choking snarl and tackled John into the ground.

John dug the bowie deep into the other's throat as they fell and pushed with his legs against the convulsing body, sending it sailing above him in a shower of arterial blood. He managed to roll into a crouch and deflected a downward swing with his left arm, but before he could capitalize his right shoulder exploded in pain.

He didn't fall, rather stumbled into the dumbstruck legionary and head-butted him in the face. Another machete carved into John's thigh as barked orders bounced around his skull; his leg buckled and he shifted his weight onto the less damaged limb, following the voice like a frothing hound smelling prey.

John tackled the nearest figure in crimson, lips curled into a snarl. His left hand snapped like a bear trap around the throat of the feathered bastard and he wrenched it back, tearing off muscles, flesh, and part of the man's trachea just as another blade found its way into his side.

Metal grated against John's lower ribs. He heard screaming: if it was the legionaries' or his, he couldn't tell. A boot connected with his belly, dislodging the blade and pushing it deeper into his liver. Every heartbeat was a detonation through his body; John could feel the blood flowing out, precious life force leaving him by the bucketload.

He tasted blood and dirt, eyes inching closed from a creeping drowsiness. The ground rumbled against his ear and crimson filled his field of vision, heads and shoulders heaving with fatigue, eyes studying him from behind thick lenses with… Respect? Fear? Disgust?

Thunder struck, and half a head exploded into a fine mist of blood that pitapatted down on him. The crimson disappeared from his vision just as thunder struck again, and something solid collapsed upon him, flattening him on his belly. Air left his lungs in a violent exhale, but the pain was starting to recede.

Maybe he'd gotten used to it already. That'd be good.

Numbness crept in. One last bark of thunder. A cry, distant and short-lived. With his face pressed against the sand, the plethora of crimson bull flags being hoisted over Nipton's roofs was the last thing he saw.

Then the abyss welcomed him with open arms.

* * *

Cass glared at the door as it cracked open. The smell of smoke and blood, dampened by the four walls around her, rolled inside in waves, ushering in the Legion.

There were many of them, but the third in was different. Maybe it was the dog head he wore like a hat, or that he was actually shorter than the rest. Or maybe the natural deference the drones – as she'd come to taunt each of them in the first hours of her captivity, earning only indifference – showed him.

She refused to lower her gaze even when she heard the soldier beside her hold back a whimper; another's eyes going as wide as saucers at the edges of her vision. The scraping of boots as he scuttled away as fast as his bindings allowed was amplified in the fearful, almost expecting silence that had stolen over the room. Cass swallowed and didn't budge an inch, well aware of the form lying still behind her.

The Legion officer's scanned the room, disdain puckering his lips. He took his time going over the mixed bag of Powder Gangers, caravaners, farmers and NCR troopers. Then the eyes behind the lenses stopped on her and Cass, behind her stubborn front of determination, felt her fight-or-flight instinct scream in her ears.

' _It's too bad I'm bound like cattle.'_

The officer motioned for her and John with a tilt of his head, then marched out as four drones hurried to obey. The only man in their way, a Ganger, earned a kick to the ribs when he failed to move aside quickly enough, but with the officer out of sight, Cass felt her instinct do a one-hundred-and-eighty-degrees turn.

She shot to her feet and all the breath shot out of her lungs in a single exhale as a fist slammed into her stomach. She folded over it, hacking and feeling bile lick the back of her throat, helpless as the legionary shoved her into the waiting arms of another. They closed around her like steel vises and he carried her bodily out of the room.

' _The face. They never hit me in the face.'_

Behind her, the other three followed, the cowboy's limp form carried between them. Even more drones closed around them as they were lead through the corridors and halls of what had been Nipton's town hall, once. Cass tried and failed not to stare at the pools of drying blood.

The trip was short and uncomfortable. As the doors to the outside approached, Cass felt her stomach lurch and tie itself into knots at the acrid stench and the images it summoned. Her knees wobbled as courage and anger failed her, leaving only desperation behind. Her minder shoved her forward and she stumbled and hit the ground.

"On your feet, profligate," he barked at her. Two hands grabbed her by the armpits when she refused to cooperate. That, in turn, earned her the flat of a machete across her back as an incentive to move.

' _I'm a Cassidy,'_ she found herself thinking as the doors opened before her and she saw how her imagination paled before reality. _'And I'll die a Cassidy, thankless and forgotten.'_

From the steps of the hall, the Legion's work in Nipton was visible in all its horror.

The evening had come and gone, but torches and fires illuminated the town as if in midday.

Smoking, melted tires were heaped around telephone poles planted in the middle of the town's square. Bound to each was a corpse, burned until only blackened chunks of flesh clung to the bones. All around it, the ground was soaked for meters with dry blood cracking under the soles of the legionaries still dragging away the bodies of the beheaded.

Limp and slack-jawed, dozens of heads flanked both sides of the road atop javelins and spears driven deeply into the ground. Men's and women's, the elderly's and the young's, all sported with the same empty look. And from above, the living watched.

There were about two dozen of them, nailed and bound to more telephone poles. NCR soldiers, Gangers, and women, so many women, each with a sign nailed above their head calling them _Meretrix_ , whatever that meant. Those who lay still too long were prodded with the point of a spear. Most stirred, unable to die. One remained still as the steel point carved open their bellies.

' _Why? Why this?'_ Her mind reeled, failing to come up with an answer, a reason for what she was witnessing. It was one thing, to hear of the Legion's acts when deep into NCR territory, to listen to the wounded and the cripples sent back home speak of themselves as the 'lucky ones' when they thought nobody could hear them. She had thought it was bad when the news of the losses to hold the Dam the first time spread back home.

But the reality, she belatedly realized now, the reality she could never fathom before.

They pushed her forward, down the steps in the middle of the ring of tire-pyres, where the officer with the dog head was watching the legionaries hard at work. Houses were demolished by axes in the course of minutes as others piled the materials to the edge of town, shoring up the rickety perimeter wall of rusted cars.

"No legionary will ever set foot in the abode of profligates if he can tear it down instead." It took Cass a moment to connect the distinctive, honeyed voice to the officer with the dog head. "This town, this nest of depravity and dissolution, will serve a better role in death than it ever did in life."

"Profligates, all of them." He pointed at the crucified figures, one by one. "Infirmitas." An NCR soldier. "Lascivia." A woman, clad in nothing but her skin. "Perfidia." A Ganger, still and unmoving.

"Corruptio et Cupiditas," he finished, jabbing a finger at the charred corpses. His next gesture encompassed all of Nipton. "For these sins, the Legion has judged Nipton unworthy and enacted a just punishment. An example, for the profligates further west."

Cass wanted to ask the reason for so many deaths, but it occurred to her that to them, this was war. And the reason for the cruelty, because it was the Legion, and the Legion enjoyed this depraved shit. "Why are you tellin' me this, if you're gonna kill me?"

The man chuckled, eyes still focused on the men at work. "I'm not, to either." He turned to look at her then, and Cass felt dread unwind her stomach and take residence there. Behind her back, her hands had gone numb from the restraints, but now were trembling. She could feel them against the small of her back.

"You, profligate, will enjoy an honor very few are granted. You will be awarded to the winner of the next Circenses the mighty Ceasar is holding to celebrate the Legion's recent victories." His hand closed around her face, bringing her chin up until her neck complained from the strain. "You'll serve one of the Legion's finest, and bring him strong children. Consider it a token for killing two of our numbers by your own skill, woman. Now, be silent."

She spat into his face, but he had been expecting that and easily avoided it by shifting to the side. Behind her, she heard faint cursing and a growl that had more in common with a yao guai' than a human, followed by a stifled groan of pain.

"My words are for you, belua," the man continued, walking past Cass to the weakly struggling figure of John, held down on his knees by two legionaries. Cass's eyes grew as large as saucers, confusion, fear, and relief coursing through her body.

' _H-He's conscious? How? When they brought him in,'_ she winced at the memory of just how much blood covered him there and then, _'he was barely breathing!'_

John tried to reach up for dog head with that artificial arm of his and his eyes widened in confusion when he discovered it bound to the side of his body.

"Ah, yes. Your arm." The legionary stopped before John, studying him with manifest interest. "When I heard that a single man had dispatched more than a contubernium on his own, I almost had the messenger lashed. I would have, had I not known the man. And here you are, belua. No longer human. Something more, and something less. No normal man has any right to survive what you went through."

Cass tried to reach forward, not really knowing why, but someone closed a fist into her hair and wrenched her back. She kicked away at the ground, feeling her feet slip on the blood, and a cry of pain and frustration left her lips. Dog Head gave no sign of having heard her, but John's eyes met hers, and the raw pain she saw there – physical and mental both – made the breath choke into her throat.

"Let –" he croaked, then spat a glob of blood and a tooth. "Let her go."

Dog Head patted John's head. "She belongs to the Legion. You, on the other hand… Monsters like you have prowled the world for too long. But I can tell, you are inferior to the others. The product of a failed process. Still, you'll suffice."

Dog Head turned away, beckoning over one of the drones, this one with feathers in his helmet. "Decanus Lepidus, take these two and prepare them for travel, but keep them away from the rest. Nobody is to touch the woman, and the belua will always remain bound and under guard. Then alert Centurion Germanicus I'll see him shortly."

The legionary snapped to attention and gestured to someone behind Cass. She was hauled back to her feet and shoved back up the stairs and into the town hall. Four other drones piled upon John and submitted him in short order, but she took a small satisfaction in seeing fresh blood oozing from teeth marks on a legionary's arm, before more punches rained on him.

Staring at his limp body as he was dragged away, she realized how futile his struggle was.

' _Don't give up,'_ she told herself. _'You still might make it. All you need is one openin', and your legs. You always ran fast.'_

The Legion ran faster. _'And he can't run,_ ' another voice that sounded too much like guilt piped up after. Behind, Dog Head's voice accompanied them into the hall.

"Decanus Far Crow, gather the fourth centuria and prepare the prisoners. We leave at dawn."

"Ave Caesar!"

"Ave."

* * *

 _AN: Ah, the Legion. Good times raiding the Fort for XP, then wait a few days and come back for more. Boone always loved me after those expeditions._

 _I've thought a bit on the matter of Legion vs NCR and I've reached conclusion that, without any external influence (say, the Courier) the Legion would ultimately defeat the NCR in the Mojave, though not in the War at large. House (or Benny) would be a harder nut to crack, though, but that's what Frumentarii are for._

 _To keep it short (because I'm considering writing a small piece / extra chapter on this), the NCR has superior equipment and a wider and more elastic approach to warfare, thanks to 'specialized' elite groups like the Rangers, 1st_ _Recon, and the Power Armored Infantry. It also fights from a defensive location and has to keep shorter supply lines as it can forage on the territory._

 _The Legion, however, while inferior on equipment and more single-minded in its approach, at least until Hover Dam and Graham's defeat, has some key advantages: Numbers, Training, Morale, Discipline and Cohesion. The first is obvious, as any male within the Legion conquered territories, even those then taking up other functions, is trained since childhood (or assimilation) to be a_ _legionary. Training goes with it, as every legionary_ _trains his body for years to fight before he ever sets foot on the battlefield, whereas most NCR troopers are conscripts with a rifle shoved in their hands after a few weeks of boot camp. Morale and Discipline go hand in hand – brainwashing and military law imparted for years, utter loyalty and obedience to Caesar and so on._

 _Cohesion… it's probably what would grant them victory. See, everything within Legion territory is keyed to the success of the Legion. There's no disparity of intent, dissatisfaction and rebellion are rewarded with crucifixion, and Caesar's word is law. The NCR, instead, is internally divided into dozens of bickering factions, who fail to see the 'bigger picture'. That's why I think the Legion would ultimately win, and why I made singular legionaries in this chapter no pushovers._

 _That said, I'm no fan of the Legion, and while Caesar crafted a prodigious war machine, he made one sore mistake: everything's so centered around his figure and Legend (#punnotintended), no successor, no matter how prepared or skilled, could ever take up his mantle. The Legion IS Caesar's Legion, in name and form. A glaring mistake. Ultimately, Caesar's own paranoia regarding having his own Brutus will be the downfall of his ambition._

 _Sorry for the lengthy AN, but I felt I should write all this down before going further into the story. That said, a little of Latin-to-English dictionary is needed. (Because Vulpes is an ass, with a flair for theatricality)_

" **Meretrix** ** _":_** _Whore._ " **Infirmitas** ": _Weakness. "_ **Lascivia** ": best rendition is ' _Wantonness'. "_ **Perfidia** " _: Disloyalty_. " **Corruption et Cupiditas** ": _Corruption and Greed._ _"_ _ **Belua**_ _":_ _Beast, monster, freak._

 _A Contubernium is a basic unit of the Roman army, consisted of eight soldiers under a Decanus. Ten Contubernia make a Centuria, Six Centuriae make a Cohors and Ten Cohortes make a Legio._

 _Feedback, as always, is_ ** _appreciated_** _. Thank you all for reading and see you soon._

 ** _Edit 18/05/17_** _: My thanks to_ ** _Excisium_** _for his beta reading._

 _ **Edit 15/05/18** : **PartyPat22** , what else?_


	6. 6) Spoilsports

**Chapter 6: Spoilsports**

 _AN: Story's past 400 views right now and almost 40 people read last chapter. Wow. Thank you all so much. Also, apparently many people Ch.4 entirely, at least by visitors' count. Wonder why's that. The title is a giveaway to Cass, anyone's got issues with the character?_

 _Also, I'm wondering if I should up the rating to M after this chapter. Be sure to tell me, please._

 _ **To PaladinBailey**_ _: Thank you for the review. I wanted to Pm you, but you disabled the service, so I shall answer here, briefly. What you say is theoretically right. About Canon, nobody contests that, because Canon has the Courier, and no California Boy Courier would ally with the Legion. So NCR yippie ky-yay alright._

 _Without the Courier, you say the Legion would be thrashed by the combined forces of NCR and BoS, which is true… if the NCR and BoS weren't at war with each other. Have been for years before 2281, Lost Hills is still under siege (Colonel Moore at the Dam is quite explicit about it,) and Elijah says the rest. In fact, without a workaholic Courier trekking the Mojave time and again, there wouldn't even exist a truce between the Mojave Chapter and the NCR to deal with the Legion there. And that's just a chapter. There's a nice discussion on reddit that analyzes the topic mission by mission, I'll link it here:_

 _www dot reddit dot com /r/ Fallout /comments /26a8r3 /theory_if_the_courier_dies_at_goodsprings_the/_

 _Of course, all it'd take the NCR to win is Boone, an anti-matter rifle and a good view of Fortification Hill, then Ceasar's poof. Also, I'm only speaking of the_ _Mojave_ _: any further and the Legion would make the same mistake the Roman Empire did, overstretching. It'd all come down to how long Caesar has left to live after the Mojave conquest, but once on the horn Lanius would probably launch a conquest into California and get mauled on the I-15, or by the Divide._

 _If you'd activate the message function, I'd love to discuss more on the topic :D_

 _ **To TheFlameBurnedOn**_ _: Thank you for your review. Being a guest, I couldn't answer directly like I usually do. Veronica is a few chapter's coming (the 9_ _th_ _, by current outlining, even if next is gonna be a monster one to fit everything in) and she'll be… tweaked, as I've tweaked Cass. 'Cause some things don't really make much sense 'bout her introduction._

 _I'm not 100% satisfied with this chapter. I've rewritten the second half a dozen times, and still, it feels tacky. Let me know what you think, and if it felt a bit redundant._

 _Now, without further ado, let's get going._

0 = MIA = 0

He observed Ranger Station Charlie through the scope of his rifle.

Flattened atop a rocky ridge with the rising sun firmly at his back to avoid revealing his position by a glint of the lenses, the sniper followed the only NCR soldier walking on the boardwalk across the rusted trailers. The man's face was pale but hardly covered in sweat and as he walked stiffly, he saw him pull at the straps of the bulky armor he wore.

Behind the scope, Boone frowned. He scanned the rest of the camp and stopped on another soldier, this one standing guard nearby the gate, straight-backed in the desert sun. Under the armor, he could guess a broad, muscular physique; the hands holding the service rifle were covered with scars, as no doubt were his arms.

Boone's frown turned into a scowl, but he didn't allow his breathing to itch or alter in any way. In-and-out, in-and-out, the same pacing he'd follow when shooting, the rhythm etched into every fiber of his being since before basic.

Again, he scanned the camp. He had to be sure, but at the same time, he knew he was right. Nothing outwardly amiss, but a plethora of small hints that put together formed an awful truth. Boone was beginning to have more experience than he'd like in that sort of collage work.

The door to the comm office opened and Boone spotted the back of a dress shirt and a bandoleer. Then the newcomer emerged into view and turned to speak to someone behind him. On the dress shirt, the sunlight reflected off a pinned tin star, a vestige of the time before the Desert Rangers folded into their NCR counterpart. Narrowing his eyes against the reflection, the magnification power of his scope allowed him to see the faint outline of a name. Stepinac. Ranger Stepinac.

The man wearing it was definitely not Ranger Stepinac.

Boone cursed under his breath. A faint feeling of acknowledgment sunk into his stomach, but it was numb, dulled. Another companion lost, someone he might have called a friend, once. It slipped out of his mind a few moments later, replaced with the churning hatred that had become his unfailing companion since –

Boone jerked himself away from that line of thought, but he didn't let go of the feeling. Couldn't and didn't want to, really. It pumped new energies into his tired muscles. How long since he'd last slept? How many days? His internal clock said he couldn't have had more than four hours of shut-eye in the last week, but to Boone, it felt longer, if possible. It must have taken him longer, made him sluggish and sloppy.

If he had been quicker –

He caught himself as he felt his control slip again. By sheer will he forced himself to focus on the present, the now. The bastards who wore the clothes of the dead. Another had followed the fake Stepinac out of the barrack and Boone blinked into the scope.

Ranger combat armor, the green polymer speckled with dry blood.

Boone breathed out and squeezed the trigger. The .338 Lapua found its target a heartbeat later, spraying the fake Stepinac with the brains and blood of his comrade, but the silencer muffled the bark of thunder to a loud hiss.

He readjusted with the kickback and squeezed the trigger again as the Stepinac imposter dove for cover, nailing the man – no, the slaver beast into the side.

He emptied the rest of the clip, three more shots, each bullet scoring true. One shot, one kill, as the old saying went. It was over in less than a minute, but Boone waited for five more before he climbed down his perch by a less roundabout way than he used to reach the spot unnoticed. The Ranger station was completely still, not even a lick of wind to pick at the dirt, but Boone took his time, searching for any tell of a counter-ambush being readied.

He reached the entrance without issue and stopped beside the sprawled corpse of the gate guard. Lowering his rifle, he tore away the left sleeve and felt the cold dread of certainty wipe away the last sliver of doubt.

 _Legio Caesaris._ Caesar's Legion.

The scent led him to the bodies of the NCR garrison. The Legion had piled them out of sight, into one of the trailers at the corners, stripped of any clothes and dignity. A heap of half-melted metal nearby was what remained of the garrison's dogtags, fused and unreadable. Spiteful and disrespectful, even in death.

Boone recognized rangers Stepinac and Beaumont, if barely. Unlike the soldiers, who had had their throats slit or met quick ends, the Rangers had fought back and paid dearly for it. Boone's lips curled into a grimace, but then he paused, looking at the heaped bodies again.

Ranger Stella wasn't among the dead.

Boone flinched and balled his fists around the stock of his rifle, but he approached the barracks with caution, stepping over the two dead imposters. The door creaked open, revealing chaos and blackened blood over the pavement and walls. The Ham radio was smashed, explaining Andy's failed attempts at communication that led Boone where he was now.

He slipped past it, but his hand paused on the knob to the sleeping quarters. Boone swallowed, then flung the sniper rifle on his back, drew the SIG P220 from his hip and pushed the door open as he pressed himself against the wall.

Nothing. Not the bark of gunfire, no silent charge, no breathing but his own. Boone exhaled, braced his feet on the floor and threw himself into the room in a roll.

The machete passed over his head, to the consternation of the Legionary who swung it. Boone placed two shots through his throat before he had time to recover, then rolled away from the javelin aimed at skewering him. The second Legionary was quicker, though and kept thrusting at him without allowing any respite to aim.

So Boone didn't.

He rolled against momentum and felt the javelin draw blood from his arm, then he closed his hand around it and pulled. The Legionary, in the middle of readjusting his aim, stumbled forward and his knee cracked against the reinforced sole of Boone's military boot. To his credit, he didn't cry in pain when the kneecap shattered. Boone had long lost any grudging admiration for the Legion's discipline, however. Two more bullets to the head cured the Legionary of his life.

A thud. Silence settled again. Boone righted himself and looked frantically around: the bunks and the rest of the room were sprayed with dry blood, but empty. The sigh of relief choked in his throat when his tired brain liked the dots again.

Stone-faced, the sniper holstered the sidearm and took out the portable radio Andy had given him hours before. But rather than transmitting to the retired Ranger, he twisted the dial to another preset frequency until the crackle of static was replaced by silence.

His own voice was alien to him when he spoke into the radio.

"This is Sergeant Craig Boone to CGRHQ, ID #0096BCE. The Legion has taken Ranger Station Charlie. Killed the garrison and prepared an ambush for patrols. Smashed the HAM. I took care of it. How copy?"

There was a moment of silence, then Boone heard faint voices of the other end.

"Good copy. Hold on a sec, Sarge."

Seconds trickled by, then a whole minute. Boone walked back outside and knelt by the gate, eyes narrowing at the ground behind his shades. Blood oozed from the wound on his arm, but he could flex it just fine. From a pouch, he produced a small first-aid kit.

"Sergeant Boone, this is Chief Hanlon. Sitrep?"

Boone hesitated, then proceeded to clean the wound with a grimace. "No survivors at the Station, sir. Rangers Stepinac and Beaumont confirmed dead. Two days, at most. Ranger Stella's missing. Possibly others."

A pause. The Chief's voice was tired and resigned, but firm. "Any idea what direction they went? Traces?"

Boone grimaced, staring off at the hills surrounding the Station. "South, or west. Novac saw none of them." Not for the last few days at least. Manny could be trusted, at least for that. Boone hesitated, clamping down on the memories as he wrapped the gauze around his bicep. His voice barely shook when he spoke again. "And I… recently returned from south-and-east. No traces of any Legion party on the way back."

The Chief spoke for a minute with someone on the other side. "Sergeant Boone, I can't give you any orders, but I have a motorized party on hot standby, bound for Nipton in ninety minutes. The Legion hit hard there. They'll pass through Charlie in a few hours and can make an additional stop if you can provide them a target."

Boone cursed under his breath. First the bridgehead at Cottonwood, then Searchlight and Nelson. Now Nipton. The Legion was crossing the Colorado in forces. And General wait-and-see was sitting on his thumbs at the Dam, half the army with him.

Boone let the new information sink in and claw away at the bone-deep weariness courting his mind at the edges of wakefulness. How much longer he could go on MREs with barely a flick of sleep, he could only guess. Drugs weren't an option, and even if they were, he possessed none but painkillers, sleep draughts and Rad-X. The prospects weren't encouraging.

There was Novac too. The town beckoned to him now that he felt his energies wane, just as strongly as it repelled him when Andy asked him to go check on the Station. Had it only been a few hours ago? Right then, all he could think of was Carla. Her face. Her voice. How she'd soothe him back to sleep when the nightmares became too overpowering. Their room, empty, cold. In Novac, everything reminded him of her.

On the way to the Station, however, some of the pieces had clicked together, the way they hadn't before, during the mad chase, or afterward, on the running fight from Cottonwood Cove, the rifle still hot in his hands -

"Boone? Are you still there?"

"I'm here, sir." Boone exhaled, then steeled himself. A little longer then. Nobody – Nobody deserved _that_ fate. Ranger Stella was a good woman. A fighter. The Legion would grant her no swift death.

The Chief was waiting. "I'll find them, sir."

"Good. Switch your radio to NCR SAR four-zero-dot-five and keep radio silence until you've nailed the Legion's position. Then contact the strike leader. Passphrase's 'Baja', answer 'Chasing Ghosts'. Good hunt, Sergeant."

Boone turned the volume to the minimum and hooked the radio to his belt. From the Station, the Dino-Dee-Lite was concealed by the rocky hills. Otherwise, he didn't know if he'd be able to restrain himself from trekking back to Novac.

The Legion beckoned him, however. The small detachment left at Charlie couldn't have slaughtered the whole Station alone without losses, not even by surprise. Another group then, with at least one prisoner. And if the Legion raided Nipton too, then chances were they'd established a forward camp somewhere.

Boone studied the cracked tarmac of Highway 95, then the hills to the south with the eyes of a scout, a hunter, what 1st Recon shaped him to be. With Searchlight dark and Forlorn tied up with the bridgehead at Nelson, the Legion would move to seize the roads, cut off the supplies to the Dam and McCarran. Yes, a forward camp sounded just about right. The sniper was willing to bet on it. Somewhere easily defensible, close enough to the Highway and terrain advantage on approaching enemies.

He knew just the place. And if he had any right to say left in this world, it would become another tomb for the Legion. Just… not his. Not yet.

Boone checked his rifle, ground his teeth and started south.

0 * MIA * 0

Laying on one side and gasping for breath, John took stock of his situation. It didn't look good.

The Legion had taken Cassidy, he and God knew how many captive. Then they split them for the march, if being hauled around could be deemed that, and John hadn't seen the redhead since. They'd taken Fritz and Sunny too and ripped away the flimsy excuse of an armor still clinging to his chest to get a better look at his wounds. Not treat them, mind you, just look. Like he was some freak. Which he probably was.

" _A failed product,"_ the legionary had said. What did that even mean? John had yet to catch another glimpse of the flayed dog helmet after he was dragged back inside Nipton's town hall. How much did the legionary know about his past? How could he trust anything the butcher said, for that matter?

' _I'm a Butcher myself. In this line of work, it'd be inappropriate to lie in each other's face, right?'_

Another breath, the diaphragm squeezed his skewered liver. John bit down on his lips until he drew blood to silence a groan of pain. Craning his neck he could see the soles of his minder's boots outside the tent they'd tossed him into… how long ago was that? Consciousness was elusive and flighty. Unconsciousness, even more so. For the last few hours, John had mostly drifted, neither here nor there, the spasms rocking his body as he _healed_ the only anchor to indicate which direction he should return.

The rags they tossed on him hitched against the raw, open flesh, soaked and sticky with sweat as the air inside the tent grew more and more sweltering. His stomach grumbled and contracted violently after days of skipped meals, another voice in the chorus of complaints and protests his brain was bogged down with as his body mended and repaired on its own, uncaring for the resident's tribulations as it did so.

The collar was worse, however, now that the daze had somewhat receded and he could think again. Part of it was the humiliation, the explicit demotion from human being to cattle, a good to barter and exploit. Yet John's self-esteem dangled from a single string already, the shorter list of names in his head. The Legion could brand him for all their worth. He didn't have much of an identity to lose in the first place.

His memory seemed to stir through trauma, however, just as trauma had extinguished it. So it was that as he was dragged away from Nipton and later secured into this empty tent… somewhere, he remembered with a profusion of details what a Legion collar around the neck meant. Especially to women.

He flexed his left arm, hands grasping from behind his back, but the bindings refused to budge, digging into his other side under the strain. With both limbs tied snugly to his sides and around his back, he had no leverage, no grip to break the buckles. The simple movement evoked a lance of pain by no means ghostly. That bastard, dog head, had ordered him bound just so that he'd need to lie on his left side, putting pressure on the worst of his wounds with every movement.

Where was he? he wondered. Clearly, some sort of Legion camp. But where in the Mojave? How far from the Colorado, from Fortification Hill? John gritted his teeth, feeling the kiss of the sand on his parched lips. He sputtered. What did it matter? Even if he healed fast enough, there's no telling how many of the Legionaries there were around. How many prisoners. Where they were held, or if – how – _how long_ he could free them from the Legion.

It was Primm, all over again. Only, this time, there'd be no graves, no good of the many against the few, no closure for the survivors. Only slavery, and the crack of Caesar's whip.

Damn effective bodyguard that made him.

The crunch of boots outside the tent stopped and the flap was jerked aside. A duo of Legionaries entered, flawless clones if not for the different height. John rolled on his back with a huff, his bound wrists digging into his spine, and kicked out at the nearest knee. The Legionary easily avoided the sluggish attempt and retaliated, the flat of his machete bashing John in the belly, once, twice.

He buckled from the agony, insides squirming and turning into liquids until he thought he was going to explode like a bloatfly. He didn't and they grabbed him by the armpits, feet leaving two straight trails in the dirt.

His vision was pulsating and the steady ache in his head ballooned to a hammering pounding. The ringing in his ears swelled to a shriek that blotted out any hearing. His carriers stank of smoke, blood, and despair, so thick he could almost taste its flavor on the tip of his tongue. It clung to them like a shroud, and John wondered if there wasn't anyone in the Legion who didn't share in it.

Apparently, in that particular camp at least, everyone did.

It hit him harder than the sudden exposure to the cacophony of activity around him, or the blinding glare of the sun. The smell of death had followed the Legion from Nipton and now hovered on the camp, woven into the island of red cloth, suffocating all within. Had he cracked his head again, at some point? He honestly couldn't tell.

He blearily looked around, searching, part curious, part desperate for a chance, any chance. Everywhere he turned, Legionaries were training, repairing their equipment, eating, or feeding lupine, feral-looking hounds. Large tents were neatly arranged on either side of straight lanes, tucked at the feet of ridges dotted with Legionaries standing watch, rifles at the ready and javelins driven in the ground nearby. Small, raging bulls of cloth fluttered from poles in front of every tent.

John's stomach lurched. Two were striped with blood, freshly cut heads adorning the poles with slack-jawed stillness.

He hacked when he landed hard, all the breath leaving his lungs in one exhale. His liver sighed in relief, then the next breath came and it was like someone had twisted the machete inside again. Leftover blood and spittle dribbled from the corner of his lips and down his chin, pattering the sand. The side of his face that connected with the ground came up wet and caked with dirt that got in his eyes and mouth, making a further mess of it.

Blinking to clear his vision and succeeding only partially, John found himself staring at the faces of children.

There was a dozen of them, ranging from five years old to toothless pre-teens. All boys. Many were trembling, looking anywhere but in front of them or simply shutting the rest of the world out from behind closed eyes. None dared move, even when wobbly knees dropped them to the ground. Legionaries stood behind each, stiff at attention like they were carved out of stone if not for the rising and fall of their chests.

John only saw the collars snapped around the children's necks, and the leashes gripped by the Legionaries.

"P-Please…," one stuttered, tears streaking puffy cheeks. "Please sir, let us go home."

"Mommy… mommy please…"

"My Da is a Ranger!" one of the eldest threatened, but the shaky quality of his voice betrayed his real age and fear. "Let us go or he will – he will – he will make you pay!"

The Legionary holding his leash didn't give any sign, nor that the boy was any different that a radroach. Actually, a radroach he would stomp on, probably. Instead, a booming voice answered from behind John.

"Silence, captures! The Son of Mars has elected to spare you a life of dissolution and profligacy. Your lives belong to the Legion, to Caesar, from now until your death. Be it now, or in the years to come, as proud legionaries."

The speaker was tall and the only Legionary to show his face under a plumed helmet, which made John immediately wary. His mismatched armor combined the standard sports gear with thick metal plates on the belly and arms, further leather buckles and padding and what looked like a power-armour chest piece, a bull embossed in crimson on the front.

John felt the distinctive urge to pull an Eddie on the officer as a satisfied smile carved open his sneer when the children cringed and whimpered at the name of Caesar. He wasn't done, though.

"There is no fighting the Legion, captures. Caesar's will is absolute, undisputable. Our victory, inevitable. The only choice is submission, or death. Profligates," he almost spat the word, eyes burning with malice and fanaticism stopping on the Ranger's son. "they have made theirs, and the Legion will paint this desert with the NCR's blood, from the Colorado to California."

The officer – a centurion by the plumage, he recalled - motioned with one hand, and John saw the line of Legionaries in attendance part. The heart jumped into his throat and took residence there when he saw red hair in the gaggle of people pushed forward at arms' point. They had snapped a collar around her neck too but she looked unarmed. Then he remembered dog head's words in Nipton.

' _A prize for the next Circenses. To rape, abuse, exploit…'_

She looked close to tears but held them back. If by determination or desperation, he wouldn't know. She noticed him too and offered him a bleak stare that reminded him of the orphan from Goodsprings… the girl whose name she couldn't remember for the life of him. Their eyes were equally hollow, resigned. Any resentment still lingering from her words in the desert writhed and died.

A blend of anger, fear, and helplessness settled onto John as he watched her and the other prisoners forced on their knees in front of the children, maybe five meters away. Half a dozen in total, men and women beaten and bloodied inside their NCR uniforms. One tumbled forward when pushed and smacked his face in the sand, leaving a bloody imprint when a legionary dragged him back on his knees by the hair and held him there.

Some of the children tried to look away. Leashes were tugged and jaws clasped and locked in place by large hands. Some were crying so hard John figured they could barely see. Blessings in disguise.

The centurion paced behind the line of adult prisoners, watching the children expectantly. "You are weak and believe yourself strong. Your parents taught you to cower behind your _protectors_." He grabbed one of the women by the hair and pulled her head back, lowering himself until their faces were at a level. The woman sobbed and struggled weakly, and the centurion wrenched her head further backward until she let out a small, pained cry.

"These are your protectors! Weak. Soft. Useless even for breeding. Unable to protect even their own lives. They talk tall and goad and gloat over victories not theirs, but when faced with true might, they fail their vows and beg! They live and your families do not!"

He paused for dramatic effect. "Bring her forward."

John struggled to heave on his feet, biting his cheeks against the searing fire in his side and back. The latter increased tenfolds as an iron-shod boot connected squarely between his shoulder blades, sending him face first into the dirt.

"Down, freak. Your turn will come."

Frothing at the mouth, John watched as Cassidy was ignored. The relief choked in the sand when another woman was hauled on her feet. Dark skinned and broad shouldered, the left side of her face was one ugly swelling. John recognized the combat armor of the Rangers draped over her slouched form. The children did too. Many seemed to grow even smaller, more bawled silently. Any front of bravado disappeared from the Ranger's son.

She was tossed to the ground at the centurion's feet, her hands bound behind her back, and the officer rolled her over with a kick. She groaned feebly.

"No one can stand against the Legion, captures. No one can stand against nature either. This _woman_ ," he spat, glaring at them and then down. "she's an affront to both. Now you shall see how futile opposition is. Untie her. Decanus Far Crow, forward."

Realization overwhelmed John's confusion when the crowd of legionaries parted on the other side of the small area between the two lines of prisoners. A plumed legionary, his face hidden by wraps, marched in front and then stopped. He palmed a large bumper sword and drove it point-first into the ground before him.

John's lips curled into a snarl and the sand parched his bums. He recognized the sword and worse, he recognized Sunny at his hip. The holster dropped into the sand and the decanus weighed a wide, sharp machete. Another was being handed to the Ranger, the woman barely standing on her feet. The snarl evolved into another hacking fit as more struggle on John's part was punished harshly.

It took no genius to detect the centurion's intentions. He wanted to break the children for good. First their families, then their homes. Alone, surrounded by the people responsible, their lives worth nothing. And now, forced to assist as the embodiment of their last, fledging hope was killed before their eyes.

No. Not killed. Made a lesson of.

The Ranger seemed to understand that too. She stood a little straighter, reversing her grip on the blade. John paused at the nimble move, then saw the eyes peeking out from under the swelling. They were _burning_.

Far Crow covered the distance between them in three long steps and began raining blows on the Ranger. Fast and precise, John could see the strength behind them from the loud clangs rending the silence each time the blades met. He also knew that he held back when he ignored one opening in the Ranger's guard, then another, contenting himself with punching and slapping instead of dealing a fatal blow. There was no hollering on the Legion's part, and the children were forced to watch on in confused, horrified silence.

The ranger retreated, deflecting and defending, her arms buckling under the assault. The decanus was the first to draw blood a moment later, a shallow wound on her side where the combat armor was torn and damaged. He pressed her further, circling and slashing, intermixing punches and elbows between thrusts and slashes.

"Kick his sorry ass, Stella!"

It was Cassidy who yelled. She fell forward a moment later, the flat of a machete smacking her in the back. John strained to stand and tried to roll away from the boot pinning him into place. It was no use, and he felt his side open again, fresh blood oozing out. The legionary who hit Cassidy rose his machete for another strike, but a gesture from the centurion had him step back into the line.

' _Dog head's orders,'_ John cursed inwardly. _'Can't have them ruin her before time.'_

The duel, or rather the one-sided beating dragged for minutes. The Ranger was in full retreat and Far Crow hacked away at her methodically, drawing a circle around her, keeping the woman well away from the children, but still close enough to see and burn every moment, every wound into their young minds. Her armor was slowly falling apart, held together by threads of ballistic fiber and little more. Her arms were red and slick as the sand beaten under their feet and more blood traced her every step, but the blade in her hands was barely speckled above the hilt.

Another minute passed by before the centurion gave the signal. By now, Stella barely stood on her feet, panting and hacking, one eye almost swollen shut, machete pointing low. The legionary moved in for the kill.

She took a step forward to meet his advance, stumbled and the blade slipped from her hand as the legionary's machete glinted in the sunset. A boy cried.

With a burst of speed, Stella sidestepped the downward swing aimed to split her skull and gripped his descending wrist as she stomped her armored boot on the exposed back of his knee. Far Crow grunted, but refused to go down. His leg buckled, though, throwing his elbow thrust off target. The ranger kept her grip and twisted his wrist, elbowed him behind the ear and then slammed the same forearm into his elbow joint with a sickening snap.

The machete fell from numb fingers and the legionary snarled, twisting around and gripping her by the throat with his sane hand, a knee rising to meet her belly. A ripping squelch and the legionary's body shook. Blood flooded down between his legs, where Stella had plunged his own machete. Cheers and shouts rose from the NCR prisoners and from Cassidy. John shouted himself hoarse until his face was driven into the sand.

Far Crow's grip slackened and Stella grabbed him by the collar in turn. She yelled in his face, feral and furious, drove the machete into his belly and wrenched, exposing his guts. The stank of urine and shit overpowered the lingering miasma of death for a moment, then she pulled him on the ground in front of the children. She kicked him in the kidneys, then mounted on his back and gripped his head by the plumed helmet, exposing his throat.

"Watch, kids," she growled between her wheezing breaths. "This is how you put down rabid dogs."

She drove the machete through the decanus' hand, feebly grasping at his neck, and into the soft flesh, then slashed sideways, metal grinding against bone. A fountain of blood erupted from the wound, spraying the closest children, their cries drowned by Stella's own shout. A foot twitched, and it was over.

Nobody had stepped out the Legion's ranks. None had made a move to intervene, even if a few glances were sent in the centurion's direction. When Stella flopped bonelessly on her back and remained there, chest heaving and eyes rolling, he gestured sharply and four legionaries broke ranks. John couldn't see his face under the elaborate helmet, but he grinned a bloody smile imagining the man's frustration at his ruined plans.

Stella fought back and kicked, but the machete was still protruding from her victim, she was completely spent and there were four of them now. The Legion got to impart their education beating and the children watched through teary eyes, but she was still breathing when they carried her away.

Cassidy's looked at him as she and the others were bullied to their feet, following just behind the children now that the lesson was over. Where hollowness stared back minutes before, John saw a spark of something familiar and distressing that sent a chill down his spine despite the suffocating heat. But he got no chance to sort his thoughts and respond: she disappeared into the Legion camp and his minders closed on him again.

0 * MIA * 0

John pounced on the can of slop thrown at his feet. Greedily, he lapped up every ounce of it before he was unable to. It was half-burnt, blackened and revolting to the tongue, but his eyes almost teared up as his gullet spasmed in the hurry. His stomach ached in protest and his jaw ached, but he didn't care.

' _Grovel all you like, you cunt.'_ John glared up at the sneering centurion, etching every detail to memory. Another name, another face in the list.

"You have no dignity or self-respect," the centurion asserted, glaring down at John. "The Praefectus informed me you were less than even those profligates at Nipton, and I doubted him. Now I see why."

John focused on gobbling down his meal without hands rather than fall for the centurion's hook. Regain his strength was the top priority now. Heal. Before Cassidy pulled something daring and foolish. Yet, with what he knew, with what she ought to know as well and they both had been witness to, could he really blame her?

"I can smell it on you," the centurion continued. He must really like the sound of his voice, and after that bashing before, his ego would need some boost. What better than bolstering himself up by taking it out on the one that would hardly die? "The stench the Legion is out to eradicate before we can rebuild. Mutants. Abominations of the Old World. Freaks. Creatures like you, products of the hubris of _civilization_ – "

The centurion's words faded into the background as John's nostrils tickled and his throat hitched. Then he heard the screams, the barks, and the gunfire. His head jerked up from his meal as the centurion snapped around to his guards, rifles jumping into their hands as they barged through the tent flap.

A wave of heat rolled into the tent. Outside, the night was lit up, torches and shadows whizzing through the camp, smoke already rising in pillars from tents alight in roaring fires. Gunfire ripped the air in mismatched bursts. Before he could see more, the head of the second guard jerked to the side, a fan of crimson widening as the flap fluttered close and he crumpled out of sight.

The centurion, a step behind, threw himself to the side with surprising agility for his bulk as bullets ripped holes in the cloth, passing a hair's breadth above John's head. He dropped to the ground then rolled away clumsily, biting back the pain in his side as the wound reopened and ignoring the strain on his bound upper body.

The centurion levelled a shotgun at the flap but held his fire as, by the sound of it, all hell broke loose behind the flimsy partition. John held his breath. A small, cylindrical object sailed inside. His eyes widened in recognition, but he was almost too late to screw them shut.

The bang was acute and deafening, leaving his ears ringing. The shotgun explosions came from a million miles away in quick succession, then ceased and only the ringing remained, beating a hole through his eardrums.

John cracked his eyes open and coughed, the effluviums scraping his throat raw. Through weeping eyes, he saw armored boots and dark khaki pants walking towards him, the centurion a riddled heap where he made his last stand. Then he looked further up and then some more, past the dark green duster and the black armored chest armor crossed with bandoleers, to the helmet watching him with inscrutable red lenses.

The armored hulk crouched beside him and cut through the bindings holding his arms with a combat knife. John inhaled reflexively as the constrictions came loose, hacking violently again at the fumes from the stun grenade.

"Can you walk, son?" The voice was gravelly with a slight croak. The gas mask, John realized, mind kicking finally coming up to speed. Riot gear. "You hear me?"

John nodded, trying to lever himself off the ground with his left arm. He sat on his hands and knees, his side complaining painfully as he gasped, trying to weasel words through. "The – the hostages… somewhere – "

"Don't worry, my men have already secured them," the hulk said, patting the side of his helmet with a dull thud as he lifted his prodigious bulk to his feet. John spotted a white star, the paint brand new, and beside it what could be, with a stretch of the imagination, a two-headed bear. Maybe. From under the duster, he produced a carbine, a heavily customized Colt 933, and levelled it at the flap in one swift motion.

John scrambled towards the dropped centurion, but he hadn't crawled two steps when a legionary barged through the flap head first, crashing dead on the sand with a soft thud.

"Mmh," his savior mumbled appreciatively without lowering his rifle. "One hell of a shot indeed."

John grabbed the centurion's shotgun, crossing the strap on his sane shoulder, then thought again and drew the legionary's gladium as well, taking away the whole belt with it after a short struggle with the buckle.

The riot-geared giant had already disappeared outside and John stumbled after him, grimacing in pain every time he took a step. His right hand, pressed onto his side, came back wet and warm with his own blood and John felt a sudden wave of dizziness pass over him. His head spun fast as he pushed the flap aside and careened outside, bile and barely-digested slop tickling the back of his throat.

His boots sloshed into the pooling blood of dead legionaries, splashing him up to the knee. John spat a mouthful of puke and pushed down the rest, then registered how in the open he was, standing with the light of the tent at his back, and teetered forward.

The orderly Legion camp had transformed into a raging inferno. John caracoled as fast as he could, wading through the sprawled bodies of legionaries and hounds alike riddled with bullets, flames licking at their clothes and hair. Many were blackened and twitching, licks of flames still burning. John smelled gasoline and jet propellant above the metal of blood and the charred flesh. The torches he'd spotted in those few seconds.

" _Good riddance."_

What remained of a tent came crashing down on his left, bracing ropes snapping under the bite of fire. John looked ahead, but the smoke was thicker now, blotting out his surroundings and suffusing the blaze with an eerie glow. Gunfire was growing more sporadic and distant. Armored figures in bloodied green dusters and riot gear ambled through the massacre and the smoke in couples, executing the wounded legionaries with well-placed shots to the head, silencing the wails and curses in many different tongues with business-like proficiency. John took a couple of his own, the shotgun buckling unfamiliarly against his shoulder, but the jabs of pain were worth the mellow satisfaction coursing through his body. He immediately regretted the few seconds he wasted.

The first couple of NCR soldiers – no, not soldiers. _Rangers_ – met him with levelled weapons when they focused into more that hazy silhouettes. John started, coughing and hacking a question he himself barely understood. It appeared to be good enough, though, because they lowered their weapons and one pointed him towards the other end of camp before going back to his dreary work.

John soldiered forward, circling around the few heaps of bodies other Rangers were starting to pile up for cremation. His boots splashed in blood and slipped on limbs, cracking bones under their soles when he wasn't flailing to avoid a face-plant. Nobody stopped him this time, and their shapes were quickly lost in the smoke. John found himself wishing for the wind that had battered his way south from Primm, but thought of the city siphoned away any positivity engendered by the scores of dead legionaries he passed, and he quickened his pace. His side throbbed insistently, demanding to be heeded, but he _needed_ to see for himself. By the time he arrived, blood was flooding down his side and soaking his ripped slacks.

The smoke was far less thick there, the air almost breathable. There were a handful of the Rangers milling around what could only be described as a corral. One for people, though, rather than bighorners. Dead legionaries littered the area, many heads blown to chunks by high caliber bullets.

Sobbing. John turned, his vision pulsating, and the breath hitched in his throat. A Ranger was on his knees, squeezing a boy in his arms John recognized as the bold kid who bad-mouthed the centurion hours before. The boy's hair and face were soaked with blood, but then noticed the thin arms holding on for dear life around the Ranger's chest and the tears streaking his face.

"Carl I'm sorry. Imsosorry," the Ranger mumbled with a thick voice made raspy by the smoke, his helmet tossed to the side. "I should have taken you with me north. I'm sorry, I'll never leave you alone I promise…"

John exhaled a breath he didn't realize he had been holding and staggered into the corral. Other Rangers were inside, kneeling beside the wounded prisoners, wrapping trembling children in blankets and golden metallic sheets. He saw syringes, gauze, and bottles of water, but no corpses. No dead but the Legion. Then a Ranger shouldered past him carrying an empty stretcher.

Ranger Stella was immobile on the ground. She looked much smaller without her polymer armor, and he recognized her only by the color of her hair. Blood had long seeped into her thatched clothes and the strips of shirt wrapped around her many wounds, but more bled freely and in the light of the nearby fires she shone crimson.

Two Rangers busied themselves over her, a large first aid kit open to the side. John recognized the hulk by mass as he plunged an IV into her arm and taped it to the shoulder of the man opposite to him, then stuck another needle in her neck and emptied a syringe that looked very much like Psycho. The other peeled away the erstwhile wrappings and poured powder on the exposed flesh, then slapped Band-Aid gauzes over it and blocked it with tape.

"Load her up and carry her to Novac, quick!" the hulk ordered, and Stella was carefully transferred on the stretch. "Sort them out by ESI and stabilize what you can. Javier, radio HQ for updates, then the Followers' outpost and Ranger Andy. Tell them they have a critical incoming to Novac. Blacks! We move out in thirty!" Then he grabbed the medkit and moved to another injured, this one a Ranger like him judging by the armor.

From the corner of his vision, John noticed a silhouette take shape and emerge from the night and the smoke, but all he managed to take in was a red beret and a sniper rifle painted in desert camo with a big suppressor. Then someone grabbed him by the shoulders and he realized he couldn't feel his feet. John's knees wobbled under him and the pounding in his skull lessened, leaving him light-headed for a moment

"John! Look at me." the voice grew distant with every syllable. John's head spun, and he felt like he was falling from a great height. "Someone! He's bleeding like a pig!" Red filled his vision and every sound eroded into a buzz, then his eyes rolled back into their sockets.

The ground rushed up to meet him.

0 = MIA = 0

 _AN: Ranger Stella from Charlie is one, if not_ the _, most underestimated badasses in the game. Thank you all for reading. If you've gotten this far, do not forget to **review**_


	7. Interlude: Two Rooms

**Interlude: Two Rooms**

 _AN: Alexeij here. Apologies for the delay and if this chapter is a bit of a letdown, but LF and Writer's Block got in the way. Also I got kind of sucked in into another project you'll see on this platform shortly, though it'll likely remain a one-shot for a loooong time, so worry not. It's just every time I see my girlfriend (which is once a month) I get at least a new raging idea for a new story, and I have to write something done. Missing in Action was born the same way._

 _Anyway, I've been sitting on this for too long. This is what happens when your amazing outline doesn't reflect so good into words. Three rewrites later, I've swapped things around a bit and given Boone a little more screen time pre-One for My Baby, which will be next chapter along with a tricky-to-write Cass-John scene(which I'm not sure many actually like, since Chapter 4 has the lowest views count so far)._

 _On the other hand, chapter 6 was a raging success in both views and reviews. Very articulate ones, too, which is always a blast. Thanks everyone for the support. I hope this one lives up to the wait. I'll try to write something for Chapter 7 in the next few days, but I'm due to the Gamescon in a week, and there's no way I'll finish Chapter 7 before the 17_ _th_ _. Sorry._

 _As a side note, this chapter doesn't develop in chronological order. The last piece actually happens between the first and second scene. Also, warning: first OC and a cameo from the Storyteller Lore series on YT ahead. Let me know what you think, as OCs are always a tricky thing._

0 = MIA = 0

The pale sun had been up for a few hours already, but the air in the motel room remained slightly chilly, puckering her neck and back into tiny goosebumps. Or maybe it was just the wet hair clinging to her scalp, still heavy from a shower long overdue. It was uncomfortable, but she repressed the urge to throw her clothes off and drown herself into another. It wasn't like water could wash away more than the dirt and grime from her skin.

Cass wrung her hands and looked up at the ticking clock just above the double-bed. Nine-forty. Still an hour and an half to go and her ass was already tired of being stranded on the rickety chair, her back seizing in protest against the backrest. The caravaneer – well, former caravaneer technically, but that was only a scrap of paper – rose gingerly to her feet, her bare feet slapping against the not so pristine floor as she reached for the dingy curtains and inched them away, minding the doctor's instructions. Too much light might stir him before time. And she'd prescribed plenty of rest, for both of them.

The memory of warm water made the yawn creeping up her throat impossible to stifle, but she forced her eyelids to remain open. She wouldn't sleep. Couldn't. Not yet, at least. A coldness that had nothing to do with the temperature settled in her bones at the very thought.

"Come on Cass, acting up like a snotty kid now?" The only other person in the room snorted. Not that he could have possibly heard her.

Outside, Novac was busy tending to the influx of refugees from the Legion's pens, but the motel courtyard saw little of it. A cluster of military types stood gathered at the feet of the scaly plastic monstrosity, ganging up on Cliff Briscoe's bald head. More supplies, she guessed from the couple of crates lugged down the steps. Not likely that Briscoe would see a cap for any of it any time soon but what the hell, the kiddos, Ranger Stella and the rest of the wounded would need it plenty.

She let the curtain flap close and returned to the chair. A few worn pre-war magazines were piled on the round table propped against the wall, courtesy of the smarmy lady owner. Cass pursed her lips in distaste remembering the woman, Jean-May or whatever. Fat people were simply wrong in her book. She figured it had to do with the tune the Wasteland danced to: you couldn't carry around that much flesh without ripping it off someone else. And true to character, she didn't hesitate to charge a fee for her rooms anyway, never mind the procession of affliction rolling into Novac or, you know, human decency.

' _And that's why you never hit it big in the dog-eat-dog business, Cass. But hey, that's no longer an issue, right?'_

A gentle rapping of knuckles came from the door, putting a lid on her thoughts. A tall-man rapping, she judged. "Miss Cassidy? NCR Rangers." The voice was gravelly, on the raspy side, with a slight wheeze. A western accent, heavily distorted from what was likely one of those creepy helmets.

Cass eyed her jacket, dripping Abraxo into the washtub, then herself and the patched-up tee and jeans the Follower doctor left on the couch after she set up the IV for John. She'd managed to salvage Da's necklace and the hat without a single new hole to adorn it, but the rest was beyond scrubbing or stitching after the Legion's tender care. Damn, that duster's pockets were just the perfect fit for a couple of bottles. Shame.

' _At least I won't have to face the outside in my undies, striped black and blue.'_

The rapping again. The white noise of the active town on the other side of the window disappeared under the grumble of revving engines. Cass shook her head, chuckling despite herself. Ah, what she wouldn't give for a bike of her own. Or even another ride to enjoy without dreading what the next bend in the road might reveal, like last night, or biting down the pain at every bump in the road. The militaries always had first pick on the best toys, and everyone else had to make to with carts and brahmins.

"Comin', comin'." She reached for John's ammo belt hanging from the back of the chair and grabbed the custom N99. The weight was unfamiliar in her hand and she had to adjust her grip. Satisfied, she pulled back the receiver, feeding a bullet into the chamber, then peeked through the window. Yep, tall as they make them, and then some. Never let it be said she was an ungrateful hillbilly redneck from the Rockies, and she pretty much owed the man and his squad her life. Still, that was a lot of hardware…

She unfastened the bolt with a crack that made her flinch and quickly put a few steps between herself and the door, her finger playing close to the trigger. The door didn't slam or shoot open, however, and the Black stepped inside in no rush, bowing to avoid the frame and inviting himself in. And yet, the combat boots barely made a sound against the creaky floor for all his bulk. Red lenses scanned the room, then fixed on her.

"Ah, Miss Cassidy. Doctor Alvarez told me you were back on your feet. How you doing today?"

"Better, thanks," she lied. "And, huh, thanks for picking our nuts from the fire last night and kicking those Legion fucks in the balls. I heard one of yours bought it."

The helmet bobbed in assent, but the lenses travelled back to John after a quick stop at the N99, not disapprovingly, even if it was hard to tell with the full mask and all. Right, 10mm caliber. Not enough to punch through riot gear and she didn't suppose John packed piercing ammo.

Cass emptied the chamber and returned the pistol to its holster, then waved the Ranger to take a seat. Hell, with how much the fat cow asked for the room, she might as well play the good host and stop embarrassing herself further. She itched for a stiff drink anyway.

"Damien. Good lad, trained him myself. An awful business, the Legion this far west. At least we brought everyone out without further losses."

Cass' hand stopped on the mini-fridge's handle. She craned her head over her shoulder, engendering another chorus of complaints from her muscles, brows hiking high on her forehead in surprise. "You mean Stella made it?"

The Ranger lowered himself on another chair tentatively. The old wood and metal protested loudly, but seemed to hold for the moment and he leant back into it. He looked almost comically small in it. "She's a strong woman, and we got her to the Followers just in the nick of time. Doctor Luria says she's out of the woods for now. I'm inclined to agree, even if the situation is still dire. They're keeping her under 'till it's safe to wake her. Still, it's my turn to thank you. I heard you were the one who stopped her from bleeding out in that pen."

Cass shrugged, turning back to the fridge to hide her discomfort. She hadn't done much. "It was only a shirt. I'm glad she didn't bite the bullet. Pulled a mean one on that bull wanker." That she did, already beaten purple and caged longer than anyone else. And what had _she_ done? Cass pressed her lips into a thin line. Nothing. Fucking nothing.

"'m afraid house offers only Sarsaparilla. Not even a damn coke." Or whiskey, for that matter. Greedy bitch.

"Sarsaparilla is fine," the Ranger replied flatly. A hand reached the nape of his neck and fiddled with something there. "At my age, sleep is mostly an optional anyway." There was a loud hiss as the helmet's safeties unlocked and the Black removed it, lowering it on the rickety table.

Cass stumbled to a halt, her breath catching in her throat and plummeting down into her stomach with the momentum of a charging yao-guai, but she held fast on the two bottles and the opener. _'Damn, I've seen my share of ghouls. But this one… god damn you're ugly. What the fuck did you go through?'_

The face underneath the mask was still kind of humanoid, at least in shape, but where she would expect the blotchy, rotting flesh of any other ghoul, all the Black sported was a thin film of bright red, dried up, exposed muscles. His cheekbones and jaw jutted out, parched red flesh stretching on the bone with every movement, making an otherwise large, squared face appear sharp and gaunt, like an old-world skeleton mask painted red. He was completely bald, not even the odd tuff of hair like many ghouls treasured dearly – and costly. The eyes were two dark beads surrounded by sickly yellow sclera, deeply set under a prominent brow. Old eyes, she realized. Older than any she'd ever seen.

The Black offered her a rueful, lipless smile that made his naked face flex and dance. "Don't worry, I get that often. If you don't mind?"

Cass blinked. "Huh?" He pointed at one of the bottles. Right. She drew up to the table in two jerky steps and her hand shot out. "Ah. Sorry. Keep the cap."

The ghoul uncapped the bottle with a flick of his thumb, pocketed the cap and took a swill. Cass tore her eyes away to avoid staring. She uncapped her own bottle and slipped the cap into a pocket, then took a swig and grimaced as her stomach rumbled in protest. Ugh, cold Sarsaparilla tasted wrong. She cradled the cold glass in her hands a few moments more, relishing the soothing coolness against her scraped palms, then the Ranger's empty bottle clinked on the table.

There it goes.

"Garrett Lewin." Cass blinked again, then shook the gloved paw stretched across the table after a moment's hesitation. Against prediction, he didn't crush her hand in some ill-advised show of machismo. The shake was brief and firm, but surprisingly gentle.

"Cassidy," she offered. It sounded redundant, but she wasn't about to spread her name further than necessary. Now if the ghoul would only take the message and leave it at that -

"Very well, Miss Cassidy." Thank God. "I have a few question for you I hope you won't mind answering."

"'Bout what? The Legion kept me confined with the others. And it's not like they wasted breath with a woman." _'Beyond explaining my fate with plenty of detail. Assholes.'_

"No, they usually don't. And yet a few of the soldiers from Nipton recognized the Legion strike leader. The man with the skinned coyote as a headwear. Does the name Vulpes Inculta ring any bell?"

Her heart jumped into her throat for one, painful beat that almost had her gasp for air. Cass clenched her fingers around the bottle in an effort to suppress the trembling that took them over. "I heard of him." _'He spoke to me. Oh God.'_ "Some Legion heavyweight, right?" And after a moment, "Did you get him?"

The gravel in Garrett's voice turned into a rumble, the corners of his mouth lowering at a sour angle. "I wish we did, but he'd already made himself scarce. Caesar's left-hand man, the head of his Frumentarii and the most elusive man this or that side of the Colorado." He stressed every title with a raised finger." An extremely dangerous man, even by Legion's standards. And I was told he took an interest in you and your friend here."

' _No, not in me. I was just a prize. Just a fucking prize.'_ "Hardly. Spewed some bullshit to the cowboy. I think he was frustrated his men got one hell of a beating to subdue a single 'profligate'." She forced a mocking grin on her face, but her muscles ached from the effort. She could still smell Nipton in the stale air of the motel room without closing her eyes, and Sarsaparilla did little to improve the taste of bile.

"I'm sure. Still, doctor Alvarez is perplexed, and so am I. You don't survive a machete in the liver, miss Cassidy. Not without an Autodoc on hand. And even then, assuming one survives the shock and the blood loss, the infections would likely kick you in the grave."

Cass turned her head to the bed, not daring to voice her agreement. They'd placed John on the double-post bed by the time the hostess robbed her blind for a room. By then, the doctor had peeled away the rangy tunic and the leather pants crusted with blood to treat him, leaving him now only in his boxers under the covers. The clothes, she'd dumped in the bin with her old ones beyond saving. Fresh Band-Aids wrapped his chest and belly tightly and they'd hooked him up to an IV for another emergency transfusion she had been told to monitor.

When he'd collapsed back at the Legion camp, Cass would have sworn he was done for. Then again, she'd thought the same when the Legion fell on him like he was some overgrown voodoo doll. Yet he lived and was apparently fine besides a sickly, sweating pallor and some fitful rest, though he was probably in for a hell of a wake-up.

Hadn't she seen it all while sober, she knew she would never believe her own senses.

" _He's not human. How could he be?"_

Fear coiled like a snake into her chest, sinking its fangs deep within her. A wave of guilt washed over her and knocked it over a moment later.

' _You're an ungrateful bitch Cass, and a hypocrite. The ghoul here probably takes a dip in plutonium pits to freshen up, and_ _that_ _doesn't bother you all that much, right girl?'_

The ghoul in question waited in silence, but from outside the roar of the engines grew louder. Would he leave if she just kept silent? About what, anyway? Why was she even hesitating? It wasn't like she knew much more than he did.

' _If I ignore the arm that can squeeze my head like a melon, that is.'_

"Miss Cassidy, I assure you I have nothing against either of you." _'What a curious way to phrase that.'_ "Anyone who kills Legion is fine by my book. But the circumstances are odd, to say the least. I need something, at least a name, or next time it won't be me at the door. The OSI isn't as considerate as I am, and right now his… condition falls under their jurisdiction."

"Look, I'm as much in the dark as you are, alright?" she snapped, turning stiffly in her seat, then quickly averting her gaze. The parched red face was a stark contrast with the jaundiced-like eyes, a combination that only a dinette away made her stomach churn and revolt.

"And probably as much as he is. He told me he got shot in the head all the way up in Goodsprings and lost most of his memories, his name included. Goes by John Doe now, if you can believe it." Did she? What _did_ she know about the man in the bed, beyond that he was deadly set on not dancing with the reaper any time soon? But even there, who went alone up against a score of Legionaries but someone with a death-wish the size of a Vault?

"Anyone can confirm this?" Garrett asked matter-of-factly.

"The doctor who patched him up. Michelle, Mittel, something like that. I think he lives in Primm now with the rest of Goodsprings."

"He told you that?"

She nodded. "We talked a bit, and he's the talky-mopey kind of drunk. I hired him two nights ago at the Mojave Outpost after –" She had to stop and push down the bile and the first words that rose to her lips. " – after he went apeshit on the gangers that were messing up the region from that prison of yours, the correctional facility or whatever."

Under the heavy brow, the ghoul's unsettling eyes widened a fraction in recognition. He looked back at John, pinching his non-existent lips with two fingers in thought. A minute later, he nodded. "Ah. So he'd be the infamous Butcher. And now we've how many legionaries to add to his tally, ten? Twelve? Busy kid. Busy kid indeed."

She shrugged, not even surprised at how fast word traveled on the NCR wavelengths. Those comm officers were unrepentant chatterboxes as soon as the boss turned the other way, every one of them. Professional bias, she supposed. "Yeah, I figured he'd be one hell of a bodyguard on the road. Some Vipers-wannabees would agree with me if they could. But I didn't account for the Legion to cut through the Mojave like cheese."

"A situation we'll rectify sooner rather than later, trust me. Oh well." He sighed and climbed slowly to his feet. The chair creaked in relief. The ghoul cleared his throat, then bent slightly forward and coughed into his balled fist, two sharp, wet barks that seemed to shake his whole body under the heavy armor. Cass didn't attempt to move or pick up the interrogation, cheating the passing seconds with a swill of her terrible Sarsaparilla.

He did, voice strained and muffled through his hand. "Where are you heading from here, Miss Cassidy? I don't mean it to come through as a threat, but it would be in your best interest to answer truthfully."

"North," she replied curtly. An hairless brow rose, a silent request for clarification, and Cass found herself looking back at John's sleeping form, trying to restore order to her thoughts. "As soon as he's fit for walking I guess. I've some loose ends to tie up from my previous business, and he's hell bent on finding the asshole who ripped him a new one in the head. Vegas would be my bet, but I've hired him only 'till a little further north." Her eyes widened all of a sudden and a hand ghosted to her belt. She glowered at the ground, a tirade of foul, vile curses evaporating under an building wave of shame and frustration. "Oh _shit…_ "

Before the Ranger could manage a further inquiry, sharp rapping on the door stole their attention. Shorter one, Cass guessed absentmindedly. Then again, this one was on a scale shared only by Super Mutants anyway.

"Garrett? It's Tanner. You in there?" A woman's voice, hard and clipped. And that same wheezing quality distorting her words just so much.

The ghoul coughed again in his palm and grimaced, wiping his paw-like palm on the inside of his duster. "Come on in. And mind the door."

Another Black stalked inside, indeed more than a head shorter. The more slender lines of her armor revealed her gender where her helmeted head did not. She scanned the room, pausing on Cass and John both for several seconds, then pushed the door shut behind her with a loud clack. She stopped there, loosely at attention, hands clasped behind her back.

"Can we talk here?" Cass let out an annoyed grunt, but kept her lips serrated.

Garrett shrugged, palming his helmet. "Depends on what's new."

The red lenses of the woman's helmet rested on Cass for a long moment and she felt them raking her over, but she was simply too tired to care. Her head was starting to pulse in time with the heartbeat, informing her that her time indulging in the world of the waking was drawing to an end and with every breath, her belly and back flared with pain. She really wished she'd taken that dose of Med-x when she had offered it, but a part of her knew it was something she would later regret.

"The camp's mostly set up. The Dam sent down a platoon, all green as the pastures, but I know the Lieutenant in charge. Monroe is made of firmer stuff. A bit stiff, but capable. Added to Ranger Andy and those two former First Recon, this place should be tight enough." Cass would swear she could hear the grimace in the woman's voice. "At least until someone comes to take the children to Aerotech."

Garrett _did_ grimace, hefting his helmet in contemplation. "Can't hope for anything more. So why didn't you update me by radio, eh?"

Tanner hesitated, then dug an hand into one of the many pockets of her duster and fished out an envelope. Cass goggled, surprise chasing away sleep for a moment. That was paper. Real heavy paper, not the scraped parchment from old world books you always saw all over the west coast, or the faded plastic stuff of old world magazines. Prime class luxury. She almost missed the two-headed bear wax sigil on the front.

"Came with a runner from Hoover, not ten minutes ago. Brought the new radio frequencies as well, the others are already tuned. We're still waiting on Echo and Bravo."

"Figures. They're at the rat ass of nowhere." Garrett scratched where the bridge of his nose once was, then opened the envelope. Cass kept her eyes firmly elsewhere. No reason to get shot for some high-end military babble. It was none of her business. She stole a glance at John who groaned feebly in his sleep, kept firmly under by the meds. Not like she could sweat the bullets off either, like he did.

"Bloody waste of good paper. Does the Chief know about this?"

"Aye. I quote 'Your unit, Black 002. It's up to you.'"

A chuckle bounced off the walls, not unlike two stones grating together. "Which means 'stick a thumb into Wait-and-See's eye and keep on course'. I swear, those two behave like children sometimes. Alright, get the lads ready to leave in fifteen. We're already far behind schedule, and you can bet Inculta didn't pick his men like HQ does. It's going to be one damn hard nut to crack."

"They're already hot and locked, Black 002."

"Run along, brat. I'll be there in a moment." The female Ranger marched out without sparing a glance to the rest of the room. Cass rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm, painfully aware of every muscle in her body complaining and resisting the motion, urging her to just shut down and leave it at it.

The familiar, clipped jingle of caps enraptured her waning attention however. The ghoul was stacking up small, orderly piles of caps on the table, fishing them out one after the other form a pocket ensconced within his chest plates.

"It's no charity, believe me," he said, waving his finger as he counted the caps already piled up and producing two more stocks from his armour. "But dead legionaries are always worth a small reward in my book, albeit meager. The Rangers usually ask for the heads as proof, even if I've heard some folks down at Forlorn Hope make do with ears." He buckled the pocket shut and straightened to his impressive height once more, even if Cass's eyes were still glued to the caps.

' _A hundred and twenty. I think it's more than we actually took down but still, not nearly enough. At least we'll eat for a while. Might have to punch the cow to lower her tariffs though.'_

"Be safe on the road, Miss Cassidy." Cass nodded numbly after him, but the moment the door closed behind the Ranger she had barely the time to act on well-honed reflexes and store the caps in the small safe before she collapsed on the couch and finally gave up her struggle for wakefulness.

0 * MIA * 0

 _Thud-thud-thud_.

The rapping jostled him awake for his light sleep. His body didn't appreciate it.

Stiff. Aches all over. Those log nights spent doing little more than standing were softening him up.

 _Thud-thud-thud_.

"Hey Craig! You in there?"

Manny. Must be around midday then, on his way to relieve 's eyes remained glued shut. His tongue felt dry and pasty, good enough only for mumbling. One hand reached out to the side and patted the sheets. He puzzled at the empty air, feeling around for lingering heat that wasn't there.

' _The baby. Another rough night, poor dear. And she didn't wake me up, again.'_

Silence. No bare feet padding for the door, complaining. No water running from the bathroom, or the sizzling of lunch on the stove. Boone stirred and rolled on his side, clawing blindly at the nightstand for his shades. His fingers connected with something that was never there. There should be nothing else on the nightstand, only his shades and beret. Carla would never…

Glass shattered on the floor and the reek hit him. Vodka. Puke. And blood. The acrid, pungent copper of congealed blood.

"Craig, come on! I know you're in there!"

"Carla?"

He forked the shades on the second try and opened his eyes to the world. The room swam around him for long seconds, the settled and Boone wished he had never woken up.

The motel room was the scene of an old battlefield, of chaos and impotence. His rifle was propped against the dining table rather that at the foot of the bed in easy reach. On the same table, his pistol rested beside an empty bottle of whiskey.

The cupboard's shutters were caved inwards, shards of glass from the long inner mirror scattered everywhere and caked with blood. One chair was tossed on the other side of the room, two of the metal legs bent where Carla hit something with them.

Something.

Someone.

Legion.

' _She put up one hell of a fight. And I heard none of it.'_

"Craig! Stop hiding in there and talk with me. Come on man!"

His body climbed out of bed on autopilot and ambled for the door, each step marked by glass cracking to pieces under the soles of his combat boots. His head pulsed in rhythm with each heartbeat, a drum someone was playing right behind his eyes.

Everything felt wrong. The room. The smell. The emptiness of it all. Manny waiting outside, butting in like any other day. The knob turning smoothly and the soft click of the lock.

Even with his shades on, he had to narrow his eyes against the light of the world outside. Manny stood against it, his face scrunched up, brows set low. Worry? Anger?

"Hey Craig, I heard… Jesus fuck mate, what happened to you? Was it the Legion?"

The Legion was dead. He had killed them with every bullet he had. Not enough. Fast, skilled. Not enough. Boone didn't spare a glance at himself. "What do you want?"

Manny shuffled, casting a glance over Boone's shoulder. "I heard you met up with the Rangers last night and led them to the bastards who did Charlie in. What were you doing out there? You've been missing a week. We had to split your shifts between the Doc's flunkies."

What had he done really? _'Oh God, what have I done?'_ Boone tamped down on that thought, but he had to ball his hands into fists to stop the shaking. His head kept pounding. From the alcohol. Form exhaustion. From trying to rationalize every-fucking-thing when all there was to it was him, a scope, and a shot he had to take. He _had_ to. There was no other way around it. No other solution.

He saw Manny's frown ease. From a distance, his own voice spoke.

"Carla. Looking for her."

"She's not coming back then?" Manny sighed, and Boone felt a hand on his shoulder. "Damn it Craig. I'm sorry. But maybe it's better this way. People like us, we're not meant to mingle with people like her."

And then he saw it. Relief. On his best friend's face.

Boone lashed out and blood sprayed on his face, flecking his shades. Manny's head whipped back, nose gushing red, but Boone was dead on his feet on a hangover and Manny was 1st Recon too, a past not distant enough to forget.

He backed away from Boone's haymaker and tackled him under his next punch, grunting when Boone's knee glanced him in the ribs.

The floor came up to stop them and Manny's weight squeezed the breath out of his lungs in one harsh exhale. Boone's knuckles scraped against Manny's temple as the other leaned away from the glancing hit and massaged Boone's chin with an elbow. Boone's head rattled and stars exploded in his vision but before he could retaliate Manny was already inside his guard and nailed Boone's arms to the floor.

"The fuck is wrong with you!?" Manny yelled in his face, eyes wild. A shower of blood and spittle wetted Boone's face. "She's gone! Fucking gone! Back to those fancy lights she couldn't live without! Back to the life we weren't good enough to give her!"

Boone jerked and headbutted him in the nose. Manny howled in pain, cupping his face and the crushed cartilage. Then Boone levered both feet against the other sniper's chest and sent him sailing through the open door.

Manny crashed into the ground and rolled to a stop in a cloud of dirt as Boone propped himself up on a knee, painting lightly. There were people coming over now, attracted by the noise of fighting. NCR soldiers too. Not the Ranger though, they must have left already.

Manny was on his elbows now, spitting blood and sand. His 1st Recon beret was a way off, caked in Mojave dirt. He glared up at Boone.

"Look at what she did to you. Look at what she did to _us_! I'm your best friend since fucking ever, and even after she dumped she has us fighting like Bull and Bear. Fuck her, Boone."

The door rattled in its lodging as Boone shoved it shut. The knob turned and he locked himself inside.

He could hear them, outside. Feel the weight of their whispering and disapproval barge past the walls and glare a hole in the back of his head. Nobody would believe the Legion had gotten past the snipers and into the motel without anyone noticing. The room, he could have wrecked himself in a drunken rampage. Probably had, too. He couldn't remember shit of the previous night, and the week before that –

Flashes. Flashes and the cackle of guns.

Boone squeezed his eyes shut against the void in his chest. They were gone. Carla and his baby girl. Gone.

The dim overhead light of the room slipped past the crack of his eyelids and his gaze rested on the dining table. His joints creaked like wood as he covered the three-steps distance and freed the Sig Sauer from its holster. He stared at the shaking length of it, the motto of 1st Recon etched on the barrel.

 _The Last Thing You Never See._ A drop of blood splashed on the _Never_ and he removed his shades, lowering them on the table.

Seconds turned into minutes, then Boone walked to the door and bolted it shut, turning the key into the hole until the lock was buried into the wall and would go no further. Then he sat on the bed, folded his beret beside him and fished a picture out of his pocket. The texture was still smooth under his thumb.

' _I never deserved you.'_

He tucked the picture away, safe from harm and random splatter. Beside the beret went an envelope, half-open and folded so many times along the center a single line had been eaten away in the poor-quality paper.

His teeth clicked against the barrel, sending a cold jolt up his gums and into his brain. Then more, as his hands trembled around the grip. He shouldn't have drunk so much. He shouldn't have done many things. Click-click-click. Teeth against the metal. Was this his body rebelling, self-preservation instinct rearing up its ugly head one last time?

 _Click_.

 _Thud_.

Boone's eyes widened and he darted for the door as the pistol landed on the floor. He kneeled before the lock, chest heaving with a bated breath he didn't realize he had been holding, and sharp eyes followed his fingers as he tested the lock again.

 _Click. Click_.

Not an itch or a budge. Not a jerk. The mechanism was untouched.

Carla always locked the door behind him when he went out on his shift. She never felt at home in Novac. Never felt safe. He teased her his paranoia was rubbing off her. If only. She'd have fastened the bolt as well then, and he would have heard. Someone would have.

How could have he been so blind before? The Legion knew where to come from, how to elude the sniper on the perch. They had the key to their room, a key only four copies of existed. One was his. One Carla's.

Boone straightened up and gathered the things laid out on the sheets, then reached for his rifle and slung it across his lap as he retook his place on the bed. The Sauer he cleaned on his leg, leaving only the faintest smear on the polished metal, then he secured it on his hip. He'd worry about blood rust later. Lastly, he tucked the beret on his head and forked his shades again, relaxing his narrowed eyes a fraction.

He stank of sweat, booze and puke, but sleep or a shower were the furthest things from his mind now. His mind tried to sway him, projecting the vivid taste of metal and the ghost pressure of the barrel in his mouth, but he bit down hard on those memories until they wilted away and retreated to leave ground to the here and now.

Two keys. Who had lent himself to the slavers? Who had any reason to? Boone's jaw pulsed in pain in response, and he ground his teeth as he sat alone.

0 * MIA * 0

"Memory loss? That stretches my suspension of disbelief something fierce. I hope you aren't buying any of it?"

"Actually? I do. Or rather, I believe _she_ does. And the name is so ludicrous it might just be the truth. Plus, some damage doesn't sound so far-fetched. After what we went through in Baja, you think one of them would have trouble with what, a couple handfuls of Legionaries? You insult our dead."

" _Me_? We've finally got one of them, and you're walking us away from a treasure trove of information 'cause he's a little rusty and shows a sliver of emotion? Pretend ring any bells, or has the Rot diminished your vocabulary?"

"Stop being a cheeky brat, Tanner. You're not too old for me to bend you over a knee and knock some sense into you."

"I'm serious, for fuck's sake."

"You're being impatient and short-sighted, that's what. We won't get shit out of him in the usual ways. I thought I taught you better. Here."

"What's this?"

"Your ticket to McCarran. Don't show it to anyone else, don't speak of it. If you manage, swallow it and then shit it out. Ride straight to Hildern and tell his guys to monitor this John Doe's movements like hawks. I want to know where he goes, when, how long he stays there. Might as well put one of those satellites to good use."

"You placed a bug on him? Like that would ever work. You sure you don't need to see Gunderson again?"

"Your trust and respect warms my irradiated heart. Think, smartass. This town's a fucking hospital. And he was so cut up he was ready for the Gourmand."

"I'll be… _Into_ him?!"

"Hear ye hear ye."

"Now how did you pull _that_ off?"

"Doctor Alvarez was reasonable enough, and Contreras will scrounge up something for you to bring to Old Mormont Fort. The boy's regenerative factor will do the rest well enough, so there's no need to worry about infections and that shit."

"Right. Figures those backstabbers would forsake their _vows_ quickly enough for a bag of jingles."

"More like a trunkload of food and some medical supplies. Mind the suspensions. It will hardly make a difference for Freeside, but still, every little bit counts."

"Whatever. Let's just agree to disagree, old man. More importantly –"

"No. Not him. Not yet."

"Come on Garrett. You want to play cat and mouse with an Infiltrator, you need the Iron General. He knows how they think. He knew we'd find them in Baja."

"Too bad he forgot to mention it _before_ he sent us blind into the grinder! I won't hear more this. I'm not about to allow his little feud to blow everything in our faces. Not again."

"You forget the OSI is Intelligence's bitch. Hildern's gonna lap at his feet the moment I hand him this transmitter-thing."

"Ah, I wouldn't bet on that. I know his kind. Hildern is a careerist with a lust for a plush chair on top. Mark my word: he won't let this chance slip through his fingers. Not to heap more glory and prestige on Mount Chosen One."

"Yeah yeah. Then why would he share anything with the Rangers?"

"He won't. But that's not gonna be an issue, right?"

"… Fuck. At least I'll sleep in a decent bed for a change. Well, a bed at least."

"Remember, this remains between us. I'll bring the Chief and maybe the Ambassador in when the time's right, but until this business with the Legion is over, you're on your own. I'm afraid it might take a while. Nipton won't be a walk in the park, and after Oliver chews me up the Chief will have us ride up and down the whole Colorado until we're pushing the bikes. If something critical comes up though, radio me in. In the meantime, I foresee a lot of Forlon Hope in our future."

"Better you than me. Safe travels, old man."

"Hm. Wouldn't count on it."

0 = MIA = 0

 _ **To PaladinBaley**_ _: Erhm, that's not a likely scenario. I'm considering Van Buren's Brotherhood-NCR extended war canon in this fic and that war is a key event to define both a few characters and the Divide itself further on. The consequences of that conflict – and trust me, it_ _was_ _brutal \- have a long reach, and it marginally touches Veronica and the Mojave BoS as well, both in deed and behavior. I plan to introduce her in Chapter 9 and I've tinkered a bit with her quest. Won't say anything more about her, but a NCR-BoS alliance against the Legion would be far, FAR more difficult to hammer than in canon!NV. Hope that won't turn you away from the fic though. _


	8. 7) What Shan't be Forgiven

**Chapter 7: What Shan't Be Forgiven**

 _AN:_ _My sincerest appreciation to_ _ **Designation A1-13**_ _and_ _ **Aegon Blacksteel**_ _who've reviewed_ _all_ _chapters so far, and to_ _ **Karaya 1**_ _for betaing some of the chapters and being a wall to bounce ideas off. Your feedback is the lymph of this story._

 _One warning: please remember that I try to portray the characters as a product of their environment. Their opinions and reactions might be offending to some, but it's what I believe would be coherent for them to express. So, their opinions, not mine. You can consider my personal opinion on most of today's controversial topics is that what you do is your business, as long as you don't come and bother me and mine. So chill. Now, the chapter._

* * *

 _Blades_ _of glass cut bloodlessly into his flesh and the world is a dot of trembling, blinding light. A child, bald and afraid as the numbness recedes. He opens up to the universe, no control, no discerning. Blue eyes shine like twin beacons inside a desecrated temple. They rob him of thought, cracked lips parting by ghostly decree._

" - _ome to me, John. Find him! Tell him to -"_

 _The rush passes and she's laying while standing. Something's missing, but hey, everything's alright, the good doctor's floating here: she can't run through the domes of glass and snapping pincers because she's a super freak, super freak…_

" – _**She's super freak-ay ~**_ "

The last drop cracked the dam's walls. John had been skirting the edges of consciousness for a while as the pressure built up, stronger and stronger. Then that last drop fell, something snapped and he was staring at a ceiling of peeling plaster and humidity stains.

 _'I'm lying. Soft - a bed? The cell? No, that's plaster.'_ His vision pulsated in rhythm with the muffled notes throbbing in the air.

His body played a tune of its own. Drums beat behind his eyes and against his temples. His right side piped up with his next breath; it filled his chest, expanding it against tight bandages and the coarse sheets, until it defied his dried lips and escaped in a rattling exhale.

" – _**The girl is pretty kinky**_

 _ **/The girl's a super freak./**_

 _ **The kind of girl you read about**_

 _ **/In new-wave magazines ~**_ "

"Christ on crutches, can't he give it a rest? The Rad Pack at the Tops make less of a racket, I swear."

' _Odd. That's off-tune.'_

"No swearing," another voice chastised, closer. Hands tentatively felt around his side, his injured side, the one Legionaries played Stabbity-Stab with. Air rushed back into his lungs when the hands brushed the wrong spot, sending him into a coughing fit.

A sun-beaten face with spectacles and a head of dark hair invaded his vision. "Your friend is awake."

"Finally!" Red replaced dark. Something ugly stirred in John's gut, blurring his vision. He swallowed it as sharp clarity cut through the haze. Cass's freckled face – _"Cassidy. Rose of Sharon, John. Your employer."_ – hovered over him.

"Hoy, cowboy, can ya hear me?"

He tried to croak something and push her away, but succeeded only in the former; his limbs complied and flopped lazy slugs.

"W-Water."

She disappeared and John tried to follow her. Neck muscles fought against wooden stiffness and the complaints of his shoulders, determining the first success of the day. She fiddled with something on the other side of the room, her back hiding her hands. When she turned around the uncorked bottle of water made John's throat itch with craving.

"Help me prop him up first," the other voice said. "It's better if he doesn't choke on it." Two pairs of hands grabbed him by the armpits; John stiffened, eyes darting to his left, only to catch the smallest of nods from Cassidy. He still grunted in protest as his back landed against the headboard.

The cool water was like a breath of heaven. John _knew_ he shouldn't have, but he couldn't stop himself from gorging it down as fast as he could swallow it. Or at least, he gave it his best try. The unknown woman in a dirty white coat took the bottle away before he could give himself another coughing fit.

"Easy there, cowboy," Cassidy said. "You've been out for a couple of days. Drownin' yourself wouldn't be nice after all the time the good doctor here spent patchin' your ass up." She patted him on the shoulder, barely a glancing touch, then retreated back past the foot of the bed and sat down on a rangy couch that looked rather broken in. John's gaze followed her there, then backtracked so fast his eyes almost popped out of their sockets, locking on the array of weapons on display on and against the dining table.

' _The gladium and the Remington 700. Wait… is that Sunny? But wasn't it – '_

John shot up from his half-leaning position and bit down hard on the pain blossoming from his neck down to his toes. The doctor beat a hasty retreat, palms exposed in a placating gesture. John swung his legs over the side, eliciting pops and aches from his knees all the way up to his spine that made him feel older than he was, then hurtled himself on his feet; he swayed and stumbled, shivering at the cool tiles under his bare feet and at the rush of not so cool air against his chest and legs.

' _Am I naked?'_ Panic hijacked his thoughts for a heartbeat before he looked down and noticed his undies where they should be. It was enough to subvert his balance. The room spun and he braced with his left on the wall, feeling the plaster splinter a bit more under his artificial fingers.

"Miss Cassidy," the doctor woman pleaded, "your friend… he shouldn't be up so soon."

"Listen to Doc Alvarez, cowboy," Cassidy said, stepping closer. "Lie down. You're gonna open your wounds again."

He ignored them, eyes dancing over every inch of the room. ' _Where? Where?!'_ He zeroed on the nearby cupboard and staggered to it, colliding with the shutters. It creaked ominously under his weight. When he managed to pry them open, however, he was treated only with empty clothes crutches and missing drawers.

"Where? Where is Fritz?!"

The doctor looked ready to bolt and John suppressed the urge to grab her, shake the answer out of her. His face contorted into a snarl when they didn't answer immediately. Confusion warred with fear on Cassidy's face, a fear that reminded him of red clothes and children assembled to be taught a lesson in obedience and helplessness; of crosses at the wayside and fires and dogs feasting liberally on prisoners, egged on by faceless drones.

And like that the turmoil clouding his mind ebbed and retreated, leaving only a sense of loss and smoldering burns behind.

"Fritz? What are you - wait, you mean your rifle?" she asked, frowning under the rim of her hat. "I only got the gun, some Ranger had taken it as a trophy. Sorry if there was no time to look around, but you were dyin' back there."

John's mind was already working. Clothes first, maybe some food. His stomach growled with the incisiveness of one too long refused. _De_ _finitely_ some food. Then he'd hike back to the Legion camp, even if it took him a whole week. Someone or something ought to point him in the right direction. If it wasn't there, the Rangers would have it. Where did Doc Mitchell say they were stationed? Somewhere close to the river. Camp Golf. That was a ways north.

' _North._ Cassidy _'s heading north. That's what she hired me for. And I failed not one day into the job, in the most spectacular way possible.'_

He really wanted to beat himself over the head with his left and be out of the door asap. Two days – _two days!_ – had already gone by. Every minute he wasted was another scavenger that could find Fritz, or more Legion. Critters would flock to the razed camp. The Ranger who might have picked Fritz up could be relocated back to California at a moment's notice, or die in the field with nobody to witness. The chances of finding Fritz, least of all intact and undamaged, lowered by the hour, by the minute. He needed to go. Now.

John exhaled. By going, he would also run away from his mistakes and ignore his responsibility. As in Primm, after Sunny died.

Not going, however, meant losing Fritz. The rifle was the only solid lead to who he had been, besides some hazy memories and whatever freakish mutations plagued his body.

' _She's afraid of me,'_ he realized without much surprise, watching Cassidy. ' _And why wouldn't she be?'_

"John? Cowboy?" she whispered. She was close, but he barely heard her. "John, your hand. Remember the outpost?" Looking down, his left was balled into a fist around the shutter's knob, the cheap plastic warping in his fingers. "The doc's already scared shitless."

"Aren't you?"

She shrugged, then tried to speak, only to halt at the first syllable and press her lips in a thin line, looking away. He stared at her, half-expecting a straight, blunt answer, until she finally blew out a breath.

"Doesn't matter. I owe ya big time, so there's that."

His jaw dropped like a pre-War goldfish, complete with the stunned look. Doctor Alvarez took that as her cue to hightail out of the room, the door rattling shut behind her. Before John could wrap his head around Cassidy's nonsense, the air began throbbing again with a funky, scratchy tune. A pleasant voice, muffled by the walls, began waxing lyrics over it soon after.

" _ **She's a very kinky girl**_

 _ **/The kind you don't take home to mother/**_

 _ **She will never let your spirits down**_

 _ **/Once you get her off the street, ow girl ~"**_

Cassidy groaned. "I'm gonna feed him his balls this time, I swear. And I'm borrowin' this." She picked up the N99 from the table, belt and holster and all. She tried to fasten it around her hips, but struggled with the strap. "Fuckin' buckles will be the end of me. You go take a shower, cowboy. You stink like brahmin's shit, and it's difficult enough to sleep at night without you foulin' the air." Her expression fell, but she was quick to tip the rim of her hat downwards.

He snapped his jaw shut, but she cut him off with a wordless noise, making for the door. "I'm gonna introduce Mr. Isaac with the business end of my boot and try to calm down the poor doctor 'fore she works herself into a stroke." Hand on the knob, she looked craned her neck over her shoulder. He was still standing shock still, mind spinning in circles. "Then we'll talk. Pinky promise. I found someone who's seen your Checkered Asshole 'round these parts."

A part of John's mind erupted in joyful roaring at the news alone, urging him to pick his dignity back up from the floor and milk her for every bit of information.

"Take the shotgun," he blurted out instead, voice still raw from disuse and shouting, confusing even himself. "Better for intimidation."

Her eyebrows disappeared under her hat. "Ya sure? That's your spoils of war." He nodded and the corners of her lips curled up.

"I like the way ya think sometimes, cowboy. By the way, there are some clothes for you in one of those drawers. Make yourself presentable by the time I'm back, will ya?"

* * *

The face looking back from the mirror was almost as haggard as he first saw it in Goodsprings. He'd gone days on end without eating. By all means, he should already be dead of his wounds a couple of times over.

Bags a hollow black weighed down his sunken eyes; his skin was pale and stretched over his cheekbones, making the knife and bullet scar on his temple stand out all the more. The web of scars from his close encounter with a flamethrower was mostly gone, only a few faint lines that disappeared in the right light. A dark, coarse beard hugged the lower half of his face, thin, cracked lips barely poking out from underneath the wild bush.

' _I need a shave.'_

Food too, his gurgling stomach reminded him. Lots of it. But he didn't dare step out of the bathroom without first coming to a decision he could stick by. Chances were he'd immediately range out to search for Fritz, otherwise.

A choking weight settled on his chest as he contemplated the retrieval of his rifle. A part of himself, really. No scenarios other than divine intervention held more than a sliver of hope. The weight increased.

' _I can't give up on it, can I?'_ The question didn't surprise him. Neither did the shame. Cassidy's words had taken a while to sink, their meaning catching up to him while he was scrubbing away at the dirt and scabs all over his body. She had news on Checkered Suit, one of the two names on his hit list. _'Three,'_ he amended to the mirror. Dog-head had aced his entry test there.

After Primm and Nipton, vengeance against Checkered Suit had almost slipped from his mind. Sure, he'd continued along the path he'd sketched out, but in the last few days, survival and then a deep coma took precedence. Now, there were answers waiting for him close by, somewhere in town. Just on the other side of the room's door.

That, of course, if he could trust Cassidy's word.

 _'Why shouldn't I?'_

John frowned at his reflection, then gathered up the discarded bandages dumped it them the trash bin. A peek confirmed Cassidy wasn't back yet. The funky onslaught had abated while he was in the shower; a shame the running water made him deaf to the whole confrontation.

Naked, John plodded to the damaged cupboard. The clothes were in the only drawer that wasn't a gaping hole in the frame and John felt a spark of guilt color his earlier confrontation with poor Doctor Alvarez.

The flannel shirt was a bit tight around the shoulders, but nothing too uncomfortable. The checkered pattern bothered him more. ' _Oh well, beggars can't be choosers.'_ Of his old attire, only the combat boots were salvageable and it would take a fair amount of elbow grease to scrub away everything they'd picked up in his stroll through the Legion's camp.

Doubts plagued him anew when it came to arm himself up, however.

' _I could build another one,'_ he pondered, but immediately discarded the notion. He _did_ remember Fritz's schematics, and that was the issue. The casing and the moving parts were high-quality, but relatively common fare. Nothing he couldn't salvage from breaking down a few laser rifles and then cobble the pieces back together.

The precise design of the Mycrobreeder Core eluded him completely, however. It was a big, empty spot within the web of power coils, energy lines, and crystal lenses; something that was just _there_ , without any explanation attached.

' _What the fuck am I going to do?'_ John buckled Sunny's holster to his hip, then picked up the gladium. He gave it a few tentative swings, checking his feel for the weapon and the blade's balance.

' _Legion knows their steel.'_ His face scrunched into an ugly frown. The acknowledgment left a sour taste in his mouth.

When Cassidy walked in, he was sitting on one of the chairs, fist propping up his chin and curtains drawn to allow only a sliver of light inside.

"Hey there, cowboy," she said. Her smile reminded John of the one she gave to the Ranger at the Mojave Outpost, Jackson. Fake. "Thinkin' deep thoughts?"

As he gathered his words, she dropped stiffly on the other chair and unshouldered the Remington, letting it clatter on the metal table between them.

"Alright, play broody and mysterious. This is yours."

"Keep it."

"Ain't gonna happen. I owe ya enough already. It's gonna be hard enough to repay you without addin' this to the mix. It's a good piece."

"You owe me?" John gritted his teeth so hard they threatened to crack. " _You_ owe _me_?! Are you out of your mind?"

"I've started fisticuffs for less," she snorted, "or invited them for a drink, _then_ beat them. "But I don't have nearly enough caps to drink ya under the table again, and that arm of yours is too much on this side of cheatin'."

John shot to his feet and squeezed his eyes shut, against the sudden flare of pain in his side and the sheer idiocy of what he'd just heard. "I don't believe this. I don't _fucking_ believe this!" He started to pace, covering the length of the room is four long strides. "You hired me to protect you. I insisted we go and check on Nipton. _I_ led _you_ into the Legion's arms. And you've been paying for my care for what? Three days? How in hell are you in debt with me?"

Her eyes followed his hands the entire time, and her own rested casually inches away from the shotgun. When he stopped pacing, she sighed and fixed him with a glare. "Done? Good. 'Cause if ya believe you're really guilty of anythin' that's happened since we left the Outpost, then you're stupid as shit."

"What?"

Cass rolled her eyes, tilting her hat back. "Look, I don't know everythin' that goes on into your head. I don't wanna, either. I'm no damn shrink. I'm a caravaner with an itch for whiskey and a terrible sense for business. But take my two pennies anyway."

"Please do.".

"My pleasure. You're tryin' to find every reason this _and_ that side of the Californian rift to blame yourself. For _anythin'_. Up to and includin' when you've nothing to feel guilty for. Like right the fuck now."

"You think so?"

"I'm willin' to bet on it, and Lady Luck has me on her shit list."

"You're crazy."

She arched an eyebrow at him, grey eyes skeptic. "Sure." She shrugged. "Let's see." One finger rose. "I tricked ya into the job, playin' on you being out to soak your brain, on Jackson being an obnoxious stickler to the rules, and on my own iron liver. Yours ain't too shabby by the way, you gave me the best run for my money in a long while."

John scowled. "I accepted the job. It was my responsibility to get you -"

"And you did! Got some outside help, but hey, I'm here, right?" A second finger shot up. "Then there's the Vipers. Those mean bastards would've given an NCR patrol a hard time. Me alone?" She made a face, a shadow playing across her features. "There would have been three poor bastards tied 'n poisoned at that station. Bye bye Cass, been a blast to know you."

"What happened to 'I'm no princess waiting to be rescued'?"

"Idiot," she hissed, glaring, "Maybe it's normal for you to take up five or ten jerkfaces at once. Flash news, that ain't how it works for normal people."

She went to the mini-fridge hooked near the door. It opened with a hiss, then she slammed it close. "Right, no whiskey," she growled. "Ho, and by the way? You've been paying for our food and rent these three days. I'll add that to my tab."

John's comeback died on his lips, supplanted by incredulity. "How? You're the one throwing caps around at the Outpost. You hired me!"

"Turns out the bull wankers like caps just like we normal people – sorry, we _profligates_ do. They got every last rusted piece of scrap I had. So yeah, that payment you're waiting for? I'm broke. We've been livin' on the bounties for those legionaries you butchered at Nipton, courtesy of the NCR Ranger Corps."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "How would they know how many we killed? And I clearly remember you blowing the brains of one."

"Two. You did in almost a dozen. The Ranger leader dude took my word for it."

"Just like that?"

"'Course not," she scoffed. "They had questions, mostly how you could still be alive. Lucky for us, they weren't Office. It wasn't too hard to play dumb and they couldn't get out of Novac fast enough anyway. It's the Followers you should worry about now. Some would sell their children to get a chance at cuttin' ya up and see how you work."

John's throat dried up, but the door didn't blow off its hinges and no black-armored rangers or worse, scalpel-wielding white coats, poured in. _'N_ _o, they'd already have apprehended me. No reason to wait so long. Unless they bugged the place?'_

"And the medicines? These clothes? Who pays for all of this?"

"Mostly on the Followers." She noted his expression and shrugged. "They usually charge fees for big surgeries and stuff like that, so either the Rangers pitched in or they left a promissory note of some kind. And it's not like you needed anythin' more than a couple of blood bags and some bandages. Nifty ace up your sleeve."

"Right. About that," he sighed and rubbed his face, but Cassidy lifted a hand.

"Huh-uh. Don't tell me anythin'. This way, I won't have to lie next time." She continued in a lower, pained voice. "Had my hands full just keepin' them from noticin' your arm."

Silence stretched between them, a heavy curtain of reciprocal stubbornness and unsaid words. A minute later Cassidy retreated to the bathroom, back stiff and face tight. The door clicked shut behind her.

' _She's hurt,'_ he realized as flashes came back to him. The flat of blades beating flesh, again and again. A fist buried in her gut and Cassidy's breath escaping in wheezes. ' _I didn't even ask how she was doing. Good job, John. You're a real gentleman.'_

He heard the sink run briefly, then she sighed, drawn out and loud enough to be heard through the flimsy wall. A minute later, she retook her seat, this time without any visible discomfort. At least, physical-wise. Her pupils were smaller. Shame turned his eyes to the floor, until the silence became unbearable and he bit down on the root of it, eradicating the feeling long enough to wrap up their confrontation and drive home his point. Or so he hoped.

"So," he said.

"So what?"

John exhaled. "Look, you believe you owe me. I _know_ I owe you. Whatever you say, you wouldn't have gotten within spitting distance of Nipton had I not insisted."

Cassidy twisted the rim of her rattan hat. "You're right. I'd have skirted around it. And then the Legion would have snatched me and nailed me to a cross."

His throat tight, his next words were a mix between a croak and a hiss. "You don't know that."

Her thin, strained smile could have been a grimace in another light. "You have been out for a while, John. Shit's blowing all over the southern Mojave." Only then John noticed the bags under her eyes, almost as dark as his own, and the slight tremor in her hands. "Nipton was just one act. It was the Legion that nuked Camp Searchlight, not the Brotherhood. Nelson has been overrun, and that's barely thirty miles away from here."

"So what are you saying? That avoiding the Legion was a no go from the start, and heading fro Nipton made things better?" John shook his head. "I couldn't even take on their explorers. If you want to thank someone, thank the Rangers."

"You're bonkers. Completely mad." Cassidy leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. "I know you weren't out of it the entire time, even after they played voodoo-doll with ya. So answer me this: why did they spare Stella?"

"Stella?"

Cassidy frowned. "The wounded Ranger they used in that farce with the children. They massacred her whole unit, but they didn't kill her. She fucked their scheme, and they didn't kill her. Went damn close to it, but last I heard she was still alive, if barely."

John replayed what little he recalled from the duel. Pain was a predominant constant, but he could picture the scene. A woman fighting teeth and nails against impossible odds. Winning, somehow. ' _I didn't win. I failed, and they caught the both of us.'_ He told Cassidy that.

"Kimball on a stick, think! She didn't just fight. That bunch of misogynist scum kept her alive 'cause she, a woman, impressed them. Even after she defied them." Cassidy wrenched her hands and looked away, her gaze boring through the drawn curtains. Her voice hardened. "There're two things everyone and their dog knows 'bout the Legion: they won't stop until the whole world burns, and they worship strength. You killed almost a dozen of them. You impressed them big time. I jumped on that bandwagon with a couple of lucky shots. Thanks to that we were at their camp when the Rangers swept by, rather than nailed to crosses and feedin' the vultures. Get it now?"

John waited to be sure she didn't have anything else to add.

"That doesn't make a lick of sense."

"Fuck it. Suit yourself." Cassidy groaned. "Let's just agree to disagree and be done with this. I'm starvin'. You're starvin', unless there's a yao guai under the bed. There should be just enough left from your money to pay for lunch, dinner and maybe another night. Then the fat cow will throw us out."

John cast one last, longing glance at the door and sighed. "How far's your caravan from here?"

Cassidy froze, fingers still digging into the depths of her wallet. "Half a day on foot, give or take an hour. But –"

"No 'buts'," he said, standing up. His scar throbbed viciously, heralding another headache. "I'll honor my end of the contract, and I'll just ignore every mention of payment from here on. We'll have something to eat, then I'll talk with this guy who saw my man and maybe scrounge up some caps in the meantime. See if anyone needs a hired hand for some quick work. Tomorrow morning, we're out of here and we make for your caravan. Works for you?"

"Not so fast, cowboy. We're gonna need food for the journey. Some backup stimpacks. Antivenom, at least. A change of clothes would be nice as well. And water." She enumerated each item on a finger. "And then ammo. All that stuff costs a pretty cap, and with the NCR's requisitions, Briscoe's prices have skyrocketed. The man is the only reliable seller within miles. And that's not all." Her expression darkened. "That sniper guy, the one who talked to your man, wants somethin' in return for the info."

"Figures." John pinched the bridge of his nose, then his eyes widened. "Wait. You mean – "

"Christ on crutches, no!" Cassidy guffawed. "You should see your face. 'Sides, I'd say you're more in danger than I am when dealin' with him."

John scowled, tasting bile at the back of his throat. "Great."

Cassidy gave him an odd look. "Anyway, he spoke of ghouls infestin' some old scavengin' site nearby. We clear the area for the town, we get the info." He perked up at that and she frowned. "There's supposed to be a whole pack of them, cowboy. Ferals _and_ the smart ones. And you've been on your back for three days straight."

"One good meal and I'll be as good as new." He marched to the table and handed her the Remington. "You can't go around unarmed. Take it. Consider it a loan with a zero percent interest, if it makes you feel better."

Cassidy looked at him, then at the shotgun. He could almost see her comeback rallying on her lips. Eventually, she nodded curtly and took the shotgun. The spare ammo she tucked into the pockets of her jacket. "This ain't over."

"Of course it isn't."

* * *

John raised one hand to shade himself from the midday sun. After so long in the penumbra of the motel room, he was itching and already starting to sweat.

"What the fuck is that?"

Cassidy bumped past him, making for the stairs leading down to the courtyard. "That's the Dino Bite," she chuckled. "Watch your tongue. It's a local celebrity around here."

"It's a giant tyrannosaurus."

"With a gift shop in its belly. And you haven't seen what it's bitin' yet." John shot her a disbelieving look, and she smirked. "Come on, mess hall is just outside the motel."

John took his time to look around the motel courtyard as he followed. That Dino's tail took up enough ground for at least another couple of the bungalows that hugged close to the perimeter fence.

All structures were in poor condition. The fence was propped up with heaped debris and old truck tires, allowing for some nominal cover should someone take potshots from outside, but little more.

The lizard was actually worse: most of the paint that covered its 'scales' had been eaten away by time and sandstorms, leaving behind dull gray plating chiseled with a resemblance of the real thing's hide. And that was where the panels weren't just missing. The skeleton inside didn't fill him with confidence either: a couple of rockets would collapse the thing on the shopkeeper's head.

The two soldiers milling in the dino's shadow were the only other souls in the courtyard. They sat on the steps to the shop, a thin plume of smoke rising from a shared cigarette, rifles propped up against the steps. One nudged the other and pointed at him. Quick whispers passed between them, then the second soldier shrugged and passed the cigarillo back at his comrade, who shot John one last suspicious look and took a deep drag.

He decided to ignore them. "How come this place hasn't be raided clean already?"

Cassidy's answer was cut short by the hiss of a silenced rifle. John threw himself to the floor, N99 already in hand. _"Where did it come from?"_ "Get down!"

A foot nudged him in the shoulder. Cassidy looked down at him, grinning.

"What are you doing?" He tried to drag her to the floor, but she stepped back. "There's a sharpshooter around!"

Her smiled widened. "Two of them, actually. Remember? The guy you'll wanna talk with?"

"Oh. Fuck." John huffed to his feet before dusting himself. Downstairs, the two NCR troopers were snickering and pointing, even slapping each other on the back. Cassidy noticed his expression and chuckled.

"The mess hall's this way, you big baby."

Cassidy's pace quickened as they approached the gate. John matched it and was busy taking a look at the flickering neon sign advertising free rooms when the door to the acceptance lobby creaked open. The woman who emerged was the first fat person John had ever seen. Pale, sagging skin and a bun of mouse-gray hair perched atop her head spoke of age and limited exposure to the sun. The formless, frayed dark dress and the thin silver necklace around her plump neck did little to soften her appearance.

"Miss Cassidy," she called with a thin, frail voice. Cassidy flinched, but the newcomer didn't notice. She raked John from hair to toenails and up again with a quick glance instead, and her face split into a welcoming smile.

"And you must be Mr. Doe. A pleasure to finally meet you." They shook hands, or rather, she offered a few clammy fingers. Her smile widened. "I'm Jeannie-May Crawford, dear, the owner of this modest motel. I'm glad to see you've made a full recovery."

"Thank you, Mrs. Crawford."

Jeannie-May let go of his hand and entwined her fingers in her lap. "I haven't been married for a few years now. But never mind. I hope your room is comfortable enough?"

John heard the gravel crunch under Cassidy's boots as she finally approached. "I can't complain. My friend and I are quite hungry, however. If you would excuse us."

"Oh, of course. You must excuse me." He attention shifted to Cassidy then, who looked like she'd just swallowed something nasty. "I only wished to know if you meant to rent the room for tonight as well?"

John and Cassidy exchanged a brief glance, then she shrugged. "Sure. Gonna be the last, however. We're leavin' tomorrow."

"Maybe Mr. Doe would enjoy a few more days to recover?"

"I'm fine," John said. "After a good meal, I'll be as new."

"Very well," she conceded. "Please follow me then. Just a bit of bureaucracy." Her dress swirling, Jeannie-May retreated into the lobby, leaving the door open in her wake. They stood there for a moment, then the redhead sighed.

"Greedy fuckin' cow puffing her chest with pretense and fancy words."

"She can probably hear you, you know."

"And? Why aren't ya mad? It's _your_ money she's been extortin' for days now."

John rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Let's get this done with before I turn into a cannibal."

"Ugh. You're disgustin'."

The motel's lobby was a spacious room draped in green wallpaper with a faded motif of geometric nonsense that mildly hurt the eye. Worn moquette muffled Jeannie-May's heeled slippers and Cassidy's heavier steps. The air was cool, however. It took a moment to spot the working air-conditioner.

"Feel free to buy a refreshing drink," Jeannie-May chirped as she slid behind the counter and opened a thick register. John ignored the overpriced Salsaparilla and Nuka Cola and leaned against a blocky metal mailbox, vaguely recalling similar ones in Goodsprings and Primm. He grimaced.

 _"Two out of two. This courier business brings some bad luck. Or maybe it's just me."_

John eyed the room and Cassidy in turn as she dealt with her least favorite person around. She carried the caps anyway, despite her insistence the money was his, so she could deal with the landowner's pleasantries on an empty stomach.

When the register clicked open, he noticed then small frame propped up against it. It was made of wood, thin but finely carved, the glass polished to a shine. It framed the picture of a young man barely in his twenties, leaning proudly against a cart pulled by brahmin.

"Is that your son?"

Jeannie-May paused as she counted the caps. "I beg – Oh. My sweet Armand, yes." A longing smile made her seem even older as she angled the picture to face towards the inside of the room. "You have sharp eyes, Mr. Doe. Yes, he was my son. Like his father, he's in a better place now." Deft fingers scooped up the caps left on the counter and dropped them in the register without counting, then she handed a strip of scrubbed paper to Cassidy and offered a strained smile.

"I wish both of you a pleasant meal and a safe journey, should we not meet in the morning. Good day."

John still recognized a dismissal when he saw one, and Cassidy was only too happy to leave the 'cow's cozy nest' all the more quickly.

Beyond the motel's courtyard, Novac was an agglomeration of pre-war bungalows and tumbledown residential two-stories apartments. The cracked tarmac, the wooden fences, and the thorny vegetable gardens were supposedly a common sight all around the Mojave Wasteland. They reminded John of Goodsprings. It made him want to leave the place only faster.

"Where's our sniper?"

Cass slowed down until they were walking side by side, and pointed up at the dinosaur.

John shaded his eyes, but no amount of squinting revealed any human shape. "You mean in the mouth?"

"Right between its teeth. I think his shift started around midday, so it's no dice until dusk."

John frowned, half at the news he'd have to twist his thumbs for the rest of the day and half at the giant thermometer held in the tyrannosaur's tiny clutches. "He'll have to take a break at some point."

"Usually, they used to. But with the Legion so close and the odd feral shambling from the hills, the whole place is in high alert." She chuckled weakly at his expression. "Yeah, NCR standards are quite shitty. The guys down at camp act a bit more serious, at least when their officer is around."

"What camp?"

Cassidy's face fell. "For all the refugees. Come on, sess hall is smack in the middle of it."

He heard it before he saw it, actually. He noticed in Primm that crowds had a way of making noise even when everyone was quiet. No funeral was being held, but the air still stank of desperation. The ambient noise wasn't that of lives carrying on through the day, but prayers, grief, and quiet, dignified sobbing.

The refugee camp was a collection of tents, rickety shacks, and hanging tarps gathered in the shadow of the old gas station or further off, on the other side of the road among dilapidated and cannibalized houses. Dozens of people of all ages milled about, aimless. Children moved in throngs, playing and wandering, while the lone ones clung to adults or the few ragged NCR soldiers keeping order. John recognized a couple of faces from their shared time in the Legion's care, but the few who saw him scurried away, disappearing in the chaos.

The adults were worse. Many sat on impromptu chairs, pieces of debris or on the ground, staring forlornly at their own hands, faces apathetic and empty. A few moved through the maze with purpose, dragging loved ones by the hand, or clutching food and water close to their chests.

"There's a lot of people here," he breathed, craning his head left and right with building dread. There were dozens already, and he was barely at the outskirts of the camp. Once or twice, he caught a glimpse of a white coat and a harassed face darting in and out of the few proper tents. The fluttering flaps showed people lying on mattresses or even just sheets. The stink of infection and death was everywhere.

It reminded John of a battlefield: only the shooting was missing. Judging by the frightened faces around him, even that couldn't be too far.

"They're from farms and settlements all over the southern Mojave," Cassidy whispered as they walked. "The people who could afford it have already bought passage and protection with the caravans fleeing north. Everyone here's just waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

Cassidy gave him a pained look. "Help? Deliverance? Maybe for the NCR to reclaim their homes. I don't know."

They left the road and walked deeper into the camp, beelining between tents, ropes, pegs and the people sprawled on the ground.

"You know what's funny?" she said, her words brittle. "If I still had my caravan, this would be prime opportunity."

"I don't think anyone here has many caps to spare."

Cass looked away. "There's more to be had than caps. People who flee their homes often have the time to only take what's most precious to them. Bits of jewelry. Weapons. Knick-knacks. Sometimes, toys. There's always a market for that stuff, if you know where to look."

"And you do?"

She shrugged, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her jacket. "I dealt mostly in liquids. Alcohol for the Strip, and Lake Mead's water back to California. A way to combine business with pleasure." Her voice broke on the last word and she quickened her pace.

John lagged behind. _"Don't comfort her,"_ he told himself. _"This is a business partnership. The sooner I get her to her caravan, the sooner we're done. For her own good."_

He clung to that determination and was about to catch up with her when he passed an open tent and stopped in his tracks.

He recognized the red beret from somewhere. That, and the silenced AXMC sniper rifle with the desert camo paint on the man's back. The tall, blonde doctor and even the sniper's own face under the shades didn't ring any bell, but that beret… where had he seen it?

The sniper didn't seem to notice him. Or if he did, he didn't care. He stood in the middle of the tent, feet distanced and arms folded across his chest as he listened to the tall doctor drone on and on about the condition of his patient. John would have recognized the stiffness of his limbs and the tension radiating from his stance everywhere. He saw both often enough in the mirror.

"… the internal bleeding has stopped and her bones are mending properly, but I'm worried about possible brain damage." The doctor stopped, glanced briefly at John, and continued. "She hasn't woken up yet, and I have no way to treat her without running some test. The Followers have the equipment, but we need to carry her north, to Doctor Usanagi's Clinic. I'm not comfortable moving her like this, even assuming you could find the people to carry a stretcher all the way there. Too much jostling around."

"She's survived the Legion," the sniper said in a flat, weary voice. " Some jostling won't kill her."

"It's not death that worries me. Spinal damage does, and with her cracked vertebrae, a splinter of bone is enough. Low enough and she might never walk again. High enough, and she'll stop breathing."

John slipped out of view, fighting down his curiosity and giving the two men a bit of privacy. He only caught a peek of the patient: a tanned woman bruised black and blue, her face swollen, hair matted with dried blood.

"That's Stella," Cassidy whispered behind him. John nodded. He was starting to remember them now from the Legion camp, the Ranger and the sniper.

He turned his attention back on the conversation. The tent muffled the voices, but not enough he couldn't make out the words.

"… a few favors to call in," the sniper said. "With a spot on the truck to Aerotech, can she make the trip?"

"Maybe. She'll need continuous monitoring. And the army is not fond of dealing with the Followers."

"Can she make it?"

John thought he could hear the gears spinning in the doctor's head. "She has better chances, at least. The sooner we can transfer her to Usanagi's, the best chances at recovery she has." Then he sighed. When he spoke next, the doctor actually sounded ashamed. "That's not going to be cheap. Auto-Doc treatment is expensive. It'd be different if we could treat her at the Fort, but the entity of her wounds…"

The distinctive jingle of caps tolled like a bell in the small confines of the tent. "Enough?"

"Plenty. I'll take her there myself the moment the transport arrives."

The sniper was out of the tent a moment later, the flap drawing close behind him. John tried to ignore the oily feeling in his throat. _"I was waiting for him. Listening in was coincidental."_

The sniper studied the both of them, his eyes unreadable behind the shades. "You were at the Legion camp," he said at last.

John nodded. "You killed the guards at the centurion's tent."

"And others. Not nearly enough. You," he looked at Cassidy, "You were asking for information. A man in a checkered suit. What do you want with him?"

"You saw him?" John butted in. The sniper nodded, his jaw twitching. John turned to Cass. "Didn't you say the sniper we should talk to was on shift?"

"Manny is on shift," the sniper snapped. He let out a breath, and the hard planes of his face settled back. "Black and white checkered suit, slick air, a silver gun? I know who he is. I know where you can find him."

For a glorious moment, John wondered if this wasn't it and he'd finally learn the identity of the man who stole his life with two bullets. Then he almost smacked himself for his own naivety.

"What do you want in return?"

"A favor. No ghouls," he added quickly. "You're staying at the motel?"

"Only for tonight. We're leavin' in the mornin'," Cass said. John glared at her.

 _'Easy for you. Without that information, where will I go then?'_ He bit down on his tongue.

"Seven-hundred sharp this evening, your room. I'll knock three times, then once." And with that, he marched away.

Cass cleared her throat loudly, snapping John's gaze away from the retreating sniper's back. "Jerk. Didn't even introduce himself. Anyway, that was convenient. You trust him?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. But he was there with the Rangers. He hurt the Legion when it counted. It won't cost us anything to hear his offer. At least he'll go straight to the point."

Cassidy hummed appreciatively. "And if you don't like what he has to offer, ghouls time? I'd rather avoid that."

"Duly noted, ma'am." John's stomach grumbled loudly then, but no head turned. "We still have to wait 'till evening." And if the sniper didn't pan out, he'd talk to the other about the zombie problem. Ridding the world of some zombie trash didn't sound half-bad. Maybe Cassidy could wait in Novac?

* * *

"You're the worst player to ever touch a Caravan deck. And I ain't even cheatin'."

"I learned to play two hours ago."

"Amateur or not, you're terrible."

John groaned and dropped his cards face up on the bed. "Then tell me: what can I do with this hand?"

She leaned forward, lifting the rim of her rattan hat to see better. John looked at the ceiling. _"Goddamnit, that shirt has two more buttons on it."_

"Lose. You've got some shitty luck, cowboy. When you get to Vegas, stay away from the casinos. They'll eat ya alive."

"My thoughts exactly. I fold. Forever."

Cassidy made to convince him otherwise, then she looked outside the window. The sun was dropping below the hills, the sky aflame with breathtaking hues of orange and purple. It was beautiful.

"Suit yourself," she said, after a moment of shared contemplation. "It's about time for sniper dude to drop by anyway."

John popped his vertebrae, groaning quietly in relief after too long sitting cross-legged. Restoring circulation to his numbing legs took a bit longer and a bit more rubbing. Behind him, Cassidy shuffled the deck, then started laying down cards on the bedspread.

"What are you playing now?" he asked. Anything to distract himself from his clawing hunger. As it turned out, one decent meal didn't erase days without food. Cassidy arranged most of the deck in seven columns, each longer from right to the far left. Only the bottom card of each column was face-up and she held the rest of the cards in a small deck.

"It's a solitary," she said absently as she turned up an ace and placed it above the columns.

"You're playing alone. Can you lose in it?"

Cassidy snorted, turning up a four and adding it to the bottom of a column. "I'm playin' alone because playin' with you hurts my karma. And no, you can't lose," she smirked up at him. "You get _stuck_ , and then have to start again until you win."

"And what if I stop?"

"You'd break the rules."

John shook his head and went to the mini-bar. "I'd probably get stuck in a loop until I'm old and decrepit and the cards have rotted away. I think I'll pass." Cassidy's chuckle was a study in mockery.

Steps approached from the catwalk outside. Three raps hit the door in quick succession. John had Sunny out and a bullet chambered by the time the second's rap vanished into the third. He walked around the bed, keeping himself between the door and the exposed window. When the fourth and last rap resounded, he leaned out a bit and spotted the sniper standing to the far side of the door, wearing the same white shirt and camo pants from midday. The lower half of an NCR BDU, now that he looked more closely. As if the bear badge pinned to his beret beside the skull-and-rifles badge didn't make his allegiance adamant.

"Come on in."

The sniper shut the door behind him, then brushed past John and tugged the curtains closed. He kept his shades on even in the dim light, but John could tell his eyes were on his gun and Cassidy's Remington, on the sheets inches away from her.

"I want you to find who sold my wife to the Legion. Then I'll tell you all about your man."

Cassidy recoiled, as if struck. John exhaled. "How do you know she was sold? Or that it was the Legion?"

"I'm First Recon. Was." He stiffened. "I recognize their work. They came while I was on shift. They must have an insider. I want you to find them."

"When did this happen?"

"Nine days ago."

"Then what the fuck are ya doin' here?"

Boots hit the tiles and the sniper found himself with a facefull of infuriated redhead. John commended him for not flinching, but the sniper's jaw was so tight, it was a wonder it didn't snap. No words came out in response.

"You're First Recon?" she spat out the words. "Then you should be out there, lookin' for her. If someone can do it, it's you guys. What the fuck are you doing standin' here?!"

"Carla is dead."

The man's tone was as sharp and steely as any knife. There was something there, something utterly unnatural in the way the words tumbled out of his mouth. That gave John pause and forget what he was about to say.

Cassidy was undeterred.

"You can't know that." She swallowed, looking away. "The Legion keeps their prisoners alive. Merchandise," she spat. "If they went through all the trouble to sneak into Novac –"

"She's dead," the sniper snarled, before visibly reigning his temper in. "I know it. You don't need to know anything else. Just find the bastard who sold her."

"Why don't you ask the army?" John intervened. "You're NCR. Or you were, but you still wear their colors. They'd launch an official investigation and sort out the truth."

The sniper shook his head. "They won't. They lack the numbers. Everyone thinks Carla ran back to Vegas anyway. Nobody will look me in the eyes anymore." He gritted his teeth, and the next words came out in a strangled hiss. "They think I'm delusional."

"Are you?"

"You two aren't on the other side of the Colorado, are you?"

The words sunk in slowly. John exchanged a look with Cassidy, then, "You mean you were out, searching her, and you found the Legion raiding camp?"

The sniper grunted, though it could have been assent or dissent for all he could read into it. "Are you in?"

"How do we know you ain't makin' up the information John's after 'cause you need us?"

For a moment, a thin, wistful smile threatened to crack the sniper's lips. It melted to ashes a heartbeat later. "I spent my honeymoon at his place. Good enough?"

John took a moment to consider that. Per se, the statement didn't lend any real credence to the sniper. He could be simply making up that as well. It all came down to the fact that John himself didn't remember anything more than the man's jacket. Not his voice. Not his _face_. He was stumbling in the dark, and anyone smart enough could exploit his blindness.

' _Still_ , _I don't have any other choice. This, or the zombies.'_ "I'm in. Cass?"

She nodded crisply. "If what you're sayin' is true, we owe ya our lives." He turned to face the sniper fully. "I don't work with no-name. Much less for."

"Craig Boone." His hands remained folded across his chest.

"I'm Cass. This is John. Where should we start lookin'?"

Boone produced a small, average looking key from his pant pocket. It fell clattering on the table. "Who helped the Legion knew I work the night shift. Knew where to go, where my blind spots are. They slipped in and out without being noticed. Carried Carla with them. No fuss."

"How many are on that list?" John asked.

"A few. Anyone with good eyes. Nobody's left town since then, I checked. So they're still around here."

John rubbed his chin. "She had any enemies? Anyone out to get her?"

Boone shook his head, then he sighed. "She didn't like it here. Kept mostly to herself. Main reason why people think she ran back to Vegas. That, and the door." Boone took a steadying breath. "It was locked when I came back in the morning. Only four people had the key. Carla, Crawford, Manny, and I."

"The busted nose," Cassidy said, snapping her fingers. "That was you, wasn't it?"

"Manny and I were together in the army. Was his idea to move here." Each word had the weight of a stone behind it. "But he never liked her."

"Color me surprised," Cass muttered. "But a former Fist Recon, dealin' with the Legion? Ain't you guys supposed to be one of the army's elite units?"

"The Last Thing You Never See. Skill doesn't account for morals, though. He had the know-how, access. Reason." The last word was barely a hiss through clenched teeth. "He was happy when she left."

John turned the key into his hand. "This is to his room?"

"Tomorrow," Boone grunted. "He has the daily shift from twelve-hundred. If you need caps, Dusty McBride was asking for armed people to guard his brahmins tonight."

"We heard," John said. "We agreed for a fee at lunch. I'm due there in a few hours." Cassidy gave him the stink-eye, which he purposefully ignored. No reason to rekindle that particular discussion. "The landowner lady had the other key you said?"

"She has a spare for every room. But no reason." Boone paused, then shook his head. "She gave us the job. Sold me the bungalow to repair. A good price too. She'd talk with Carla too, ask about… things. One of the few."

Cassidy made a face. "You checked if her key was stolen?"

Boone nodded, then glanced at the drawn curtains. "It's getting late. If they ask you what we talked about, say I'm delusional. We can't talk until you've found something. When you have proof, come to look for me. Here." From another pocket, he produced another red cloth beret, identical to the one he wore down to the pins and wear. "If I'm on shift, wear this and walk under the dinosaur."

Once he left, an uneasy silence fell over the room. John sat, chin resting over a closed fist. He stared at the small, rusted key..

"Hey, Cassidy."

"It's Cass. What?"

"Before, when you said I'd have to watch out from this Manny guy. Do you think he –"

"Ho, absolutely."

John grimaced in distaste. "The lobby should still be open, right?"

"Yeah, she closes shop at around, what, ten o'clock? Wanna go there and put the screws to her already?"

"Not yet. We're on her home turf. If she's got something to spill, we'll need leverage." He stood and pocketed the key. "What did McBride say on where to find his ranch? ' _Two houses down Crawford's'_?"

Cassidy answered with a wide grin. " Good thing the bull wankers didn't touch my hairpins. And she's got to have some food stocked away. Let's go, I'm starvin'."

* * *

To their bellies prolonged dismay, they never made it to Crawford's pantry. Twenty meters out of the fence gate, a child ran out from behind a dumpster and bumped into John, hitting the asphalt hard on his bum. Something shiny rolled out of his balled fist.

"Watch out, kid," John grumbled, crouching in front of the child. He couldn't be older than seven or eight, big eyes and bony cheeks. The boy _howed,_ rubbing his scraped hands.

"I'm sorry sir, very sorry. It won't happen again, I promise." He spat on his palms and winced, then flinched back as John reached out, eyes wide. "Please don't hit me, sir. I wasn't looking. I'm sorry."

"Don't sweat it. I won't hit you" He attempted to put a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder, then stopped himself as the boy flinched back again. "It's alright. You aren't hurt, are you?"

"John."

Cassidy was crouched a little further away, staring at a coin in her shaking hand. Even in the fading light, she was pale.

"Hey, that's my coin!"

All fear forgotten, the boy trotted up to Cassidy and tried to snatch away the coin from her open palm. The redhead was on her feet so fast she almost lost her balance, then she grabbed the boy by an arm before he could dart away.

"Where did you take this?! Where _?_ Answer me!"

"It's mine!" the child squealed, indignant. "I found it! Lemme go, it hurts!"

"What the hell?" Cassidy glared at him over the boy's head, her other hand a fist around the coin. "Let him go, woman! He's only a child."

"Look!" She shoved the coin in her face, and any further protest died on his lips. The profile of an austere nose was impressed on the front and John's sharp eyes could make out faint letters along the margins.

' _Aeternit Imperii.'_ "For the Eternity of the Empire," he whispered. He took the coin and flipped it around. _'Pax per Bellum'_. Peace through War. Vegetius was probably turning in his grave.

' _What the hell is a child doing with a Legion Aureus,'_ was only a heartbeat ahead of ' _Some luck, at last!'_.

"John, that's –"

"I know what it is." John crouched in front of the boy and held the Aureus before his eyes. "Tell me where you found this."

"Can I – Can I have it back after?"

"Speak!"

John felt dozens of eyes on him and knew they must be causing a scene, but he couldn't care less at the moment. The boy swallowed thickly. "I-I picked it up. On the road. I swear!"

John's scowl grew darker. "Where? Who dropped it?"

"D-Down the road," the boy prattled. "I went to see the brahmins and when I came back for lunch, the - the old lady dropped it from her pocket."

"Describe her."

People were approaching. Soldiers, by their steps. Cassidy was already on an intercepting course. He almost shook the boy when he took more than a moment to answer.

"S-She was dressed dark and her neck shone. She's shouted at me and the others yesterday when I wanted to get in and see the big lizard."

Cassidy cursed and John felt a heavy hand grab him by the shoulder. He immediately let go of the boy and didn't resist when the newcomer urged him on his feet. Green eyes, a beard, and a green officer beret, before spittle was flying in his face.

"Let the child go, now! What's the meaning of this, citizen?"

John squinted, refraining from cleaning his face. He showed the officer the Aureus, instead. "The child had it. Picked it up."

"Jesus Christ," the other man – _Lt._ _Monroe_ by the ranks and tag on his body armor – cursed. Then he, too, turned to the child, but the rascal had bolted already. John spotted a thin body scurrying around a middle-aged caravaneer in brown overalls who was watching the whole exchange closely, and then both were gone. "Ackerman! Gilbert! Find that boy and bring him to me. Don't harm him!"

Cassidy threw Monroe a scalding look, before turning to John. "Tell me you found out where he got it."

"Any information on the Legion falls under military jurisdiction, citizen," Lt. Monroe intoned, pocketing the coin. His voice lowered. "This camp is a perfect target. If one of their scouts is around, one or more raiding parties could be nearby."

"It wasn't a scout and I'm not an NCR citizen," John spat. "Your people call me Butcher. You want to know, then you follow me." He fished out Boone's red beret from his pocket and met Cassidy's eye. She grabbed it and her rattan cowboy hat was already bouncing on her back as she pushed her way through the gathering crowd of busybodies.

"The army is responsible for Novac's protection now, Mr. Doe," the lieutenant argue. ' _So he has heard about it.'_ "With your reputation, letting you nearby a potential source of information would be unwise."

"It's not me you should be worried about." If his first impression wasn't completely wrong, the sniper was a coil waiting to spring. It reminded John of himself.

"Look," he continued in a lower tone. "The child said the motel landowner dropped it. People don't just walk around with Legion Aurei. Especially not children of seven."

Lt. Monroe bit the inside of his cheek, then nodded. "It's suspicious, but there could be an explanation." He turned around and took a deep breath, then addressed the crowd of curious and onlookers.

"Nothing to see here, folks. Go back to your tents. We're here to protect you." The crowd stirred and mumbled, and the officers turned to the soldiers who had trailed after him. ' _He sure brought a few for a simple manhandling.'_ "Carson, Willer. See these people back to camp. Everyone else, with me."

One of the remaining soldiers piped up as the crowd started to begrudgingly disperse and John set out back to the lobby. "Where did your lass run off to?"

"She went to call Craig Boone."

Monroe cursed and picked up the pace. John and the soldiers hot on his heels. He shot John a glare. "Sergeant Boone is a decorated veteran, but he's unstable since his wife left. If he convinces himself that Mrs. Crawford is behind it, it won't be pretty. And if she's indeed involved in something, Command will want her alive."

"I have a deal with the man," John ruefully grinned. He didn't feel much like to, but the flinch on Monroe's part was worth the effort. "But if your knees get weak for a little blood, I'll cover for you. Word is I'm an expert in the field."

They reached the lobby moments later, just as Cassidy was rushing back up the road. The sniper appeared around the dinosaur's tail moments later. Somehow, he wasn't running, eating the ground in long strides instead. He was ignoring the two layabouts in greens on his tail too.

Monroe opened the lobby's door without knocking and gestured for the two soldiers with him to get in, then barred the threshold with his own body. Crawford's surprised questions echoed from inside.

Boone saluted Monroe, then turned to John. "It's her?"

The officer made to interject, but John beat him to it. "She's involved at least. Dropped an Aureus this morning. We got lucky and the child who picked it up bumped into me."

Boone's brow furrowed in thought, but it was finally Monroe's turn to give air to the mouth. "Sergeant, stand down. I'll investigate the matter myself, I promise you, and if it turns out she's indeed guilty of any misdoings concerning your wife –"

"Carla was taken by the Legion." Boone didn't add anything else, as if that explained everything. "She's got their coins. She's involved."

Crawford called out from inside, "Officer? What's the meaning of this?"

"Let me pass," Boone said.

Monroe looked conflicted for only a moment. "Your guns, sergeant. Yours as well, Butcher."

Boone didn't bat an eye and handed Cassidy his sniper rifle. Before she could complain, his sidearm joined the rifle. John shrugged apologetically and passed her his belt as well. If glares could kill, no regenerative factor would save him.

Jeannie-May Crawford sat on the abused sofa, lips pursed and smoothing non-existant wrinkles on her large dress. Three soldiers with standard-issue M16A1s stood on either side of the couch and at the counter. Their eyes followed the sniper's every movement. Unarmed and in civvies, Boone prowled into the lobby, ready to pounce.

"Lt. Monroe, can you please explain what is going on here?" Crawford started. "It's been a long day, and I'd like to rest."

"Some serious accusations were moved against you, ma'am. Nothing we can't solve quickly, if you cooperate. Tell me, where do you keep the motel's profits?"

Crawford folded her hands into her lap. John's eyes narrowed at the whitening knuckles. Her face hardened. "Pardon me, Lieutenant, but that's none of your business. I'm not comfortable telling strangers where I keep my savings."

Monroe took a moment to study Boone. ' _Probably weighing his chances if he should order him to wait outside. Not likely.'_

"I just need you to show me," the Lt said. "Your property won't be confiscated. But Mr. Doe here is pressing a serious charge here, and I can't take any chances."

The old woman's glare bored a hole into John's skull. John largely ignored her and inched closer to the sniper, now leaning heavily against the Sarsaparilla vending machine. He could cross the distance in moments, John figured.

"Then what are these charges? On what do they stand?"

"A direct witness says he's seen a Legion Aureus slip from your pocket."

"This is ridiculous!" Crawford scoffed. "I'm a respected member of this community. The Legion is a scourge! Why would a deal with them?"

"This is probably a misunderstanding," Monroe soothed, glancing from his men to Boone, "but I'm compelled to investigate every lead on Legion activity. Your cooperation would be appreciated, Mrs. Crawford."

The aging woman bit her lower lip, then sighed heavily. "Very well. There's a suitcase at the bottom of my bedroom closet, in my house. The key to the padlock is taped behind a picture of still life in the kitchen. Here's the key to the main door." At Monroe's nod, the nearest soldier took it, but Crawford didn't let go immediately.

"I sincerely hope," she said slowly, "that I won't find a single cap missing." The trooper nodded crisply and Monroe made to shoo both John and Boone out, when the sniper spoke for the first time.

"There's a safe under the carpet."

All locked on Boone. Even Crawford's, who so far had carefully avoided even a passing glance at the sniper. All but John's. He had been waiting for something like this since Boone stepped into the lobby. The sniper was too silent, too poised and passive for the situation. A couple of times, his jaw and neck tensed and his mouth started to work, as if about to say something, but both times he'd refrained himself. Until now.

No, John's attention remained on Jeannie-May. And because of that he had a first-row reservation when the woman's eyes widened and the rest of her froze.

John's artificial hand closed into a fist.

"Is there?" he asked.

Jeannie-May glared at him, but looked away and offered a shaky nod when Lt. Monroe repeated the question. "Ha, yes, but you see, officer, I've lost the key, and there aren't any blacksmiths around here. Thankfully, I only kept a small sum inside."

Monroe listened with one hear and he gestured to the carpet behind the counter. Boone was the first to grab the frayed green cloth and upturn it. A dull black safe glared back from the pavement in silent challenge.

The troopers looked at each other, shrugging and scratching their heads. Boone looked ready to tear the metal apart with his bare hands. John contemplated his lartificial limb.

 _'Would it punch through that too?'_

"Anyone got a screwdriver? Those Legion wankers took mine."

The soldiers must have succeeded in dispersing the busybodies, because as the door clicked softly shut behind Cassidy John couldn't hear any commotion from outside. The guns she had been entrusted with were nowhere to be seen, nor was her own shotgun. Monroe was displeased nonetheless.

"We're running an investigation here, ma'am. Wait outside, citizen."

"And what a bang-up job you're doin'. Can any of you crack open a safe? As I thought. Lemme give it a shot."

"As I've already said, I lost the key," Crawford said. "You'd need a blowtorch to pry it open, and I won't trust an amateur with such a tool."

Boone slammed a large toolbox on the counter, chipping the punished wood some more. Duct tape, screws and a couple of wrenches went into a messy heap before the sniper produced a number of screwdrivers.

"Here."

Cassidy picked one of the offered tools, then gave Monroe a meaningful look. The officer waved her on with a sigh, silencing Crawford's protests with a sharp gesture. Cassidy plucked out a bobby pin and locks of red hair tumbled loose. She tucked it behind her ear as she crouched down to work.

"Where did you learn to crack open a safe?" he asked her, leaning over the counter, ready to intercept Boone and wrestle him down, if it came to that. Right then, the sniper reminded John of himself, moments before he stormed the NCRCF's offices and beheaded the Powder Gang's leadership.

' _Like hell I'm letting you get shot to pieces. I'd rather take the bullets myself.'_

"Four years as a prospector," she replied, tongue sticking out in concentration.

"That was before you hit the roads?"

She shrugged, but a shadow fell over her face. John gave silent thanks when Lt. Monroe stepped up, frowning. "How's it coming along?"

"I've had worse. I've also had better." At least he was managing to distract her from the hovering sniper. If the bobby-pin snapped… "Yeah, if this lock is jammed, I'm President Tandi."

Crawford's protest was cut short again, this by Cassidy's exclamation of victory and the faint screech of rusted hinges. By the time Monroe tried to order him away, Boone had all but shoved Cassidy's aside and was elbows deep into the safe.

Boone tossed out a large purse of caps after a cursory look inside, followed quickly thick book bound in worn leather and stained black and red with ink, and a few papers. John handed the purse to Monroe, who emptied the contents on the counter, searching for Legion gold. John drummed his fingers on the book, watching as Boone emptied the last of the safe and then moved to the side reluctantly, letting Cass check the inside for secret compartments.

His frown darkened as the seconds passed without results. He looked at Crawford over his shoulder then, the woman being uncharacteristically silent; her eyes shot up from the counter to meet his, and John's drumming stopped. He smirked and she paled as he flipped the book open.

 _'Not a book. A diary.'_ The earliest date on the first page, only slightly smudged by humidity, reported May 8th, 2263. A name was carved on the inside of the hardcover, the cuts imprecise and amateurish.

 _Armand E. Crawford._

"Mr. Doe," Crawford pleaded, jowls quivering. "Mr. Doe, that's my son's diary. It's the only memento I have of him."

He ignored her and began flipping through the pages. The ink became clearer, less faded, the handwriting finer with every page, only smudged here and there where the left-handed writer grew careless or tired.

"Please, don't read it. Have a little respect for a mother's grief."

John's fingers brushed a different type of paper. Yellow, yes, but thicker. The blocky black letters spelling Jeannie-May Crawford's name across a folded half hinted at someone less adept at writing.

John opened it and the world stopped spinning.

"You fucking bitch!" He registered the distinctive sound of rounds being chambered somewhere in the distance. "You twisted lunatic! She was pregnant! You sold her and she was pregnant!"

Boone sucker-punched Monroe when he tried to bar his way and shoved him aside like he weighed nothing. John only took a step before he dropped to fell on his knees from Cassidy's weight landing on his back in a flying tackle. Ghost pain ran through his skull and down his spine, freezing him more than the woman shouting on his back. He could only watch as three rifles switched target, iron sights levelled at a white fatigue shirt drenched with sweat.

Crawford stood then, but she didn't try to run.

"You killed them, you murderer!" She screeched, pointing a chubby, accusing finger. " _Repensum est canicula_!"

Then the door slammed against the wall. An Asian man with a busted nose and wearing a First Recon beret stood framed against the sunset and unloaded his gun into Crawford's chest.

* * *

Repensum est canicula = _Payback is a bitch._

 _AN: Yes, John is a major jerk. And there are many actors working behind the scene. Not much to say beyond that._

 _The inclusion of_ _ **Super Freak**_ _by Rick James is a shameless bow to a pic from_ _ **Sheason's**_ _DA account. It cracked me up so much – it still does, every time - I_ _had_ _to quote it somewhere. Hope you find your vibe again soon, Shea. We all miss you._

 _Thank you all for reading. Don't forget to leave a_ _ **review**_ _. Bye!_


	9. 8) Neighbors Mean Trouble

**Chapter 8) Neighbors Mean Trouble**

 _AN: The feedback after last chapter was… better than I could ever hope for. Over 500 views and the review count almost_ _ **doubled**_ _. I don't really know what to say: thank you doesn't do it justice, but are the only two words that come to mind. So,_ _Thank You_ _, all of you readers and reviewers: to the unwavering and loyal_ _ **Aegon Blacksteel**_ _and_ _ **Designation A1-13**_ _; to_ _ **Mandalore of Freedom, Master of Surprise, CelfwrDderwydd**_ _and_ _ **ScorpioSkies.**_

 _To_ _ **Pro Assassin**_ _, whose 'Legend of the Lone Wanderer' you should go read if you want a solid Fallout 3 Fic, and to_ _ **DocMarten2525**_ _, whose writing is so masterfully emotional that it's a sin not to applaud it. To_ _ **docs pupil**_ _, for being my light-hearted conscience when I risked getting too serious and grimdark in my writing, and for bringing a novelization of Van Buren to this site. Huzzah._

 _And finally, last but never least, to the amazing_ _ **WastelandScribe**_ _, who is tirelessly working to give 'Missing in Action' some beautiful, beautiful artwork. Best. Motivation. Ever._

 _Warning: John being a jerk ahead._

0 = MiA = 0

As the first dusting of dawn broke over the desert, the wind picked up from the north and buffeted Novac with billows of sand and dirt. Helios One's solar collection tower, alone challenging the Black Mountain's supremacy over the dry expanses of oranges and yellow and dulled browns, was concealed from even his eye at moments, when the screen of particles was thickest and the morning puffs threatened to erupt into a full-blown gale. Accustomed to the hard, ungrateful struggle of living off the barren earth rather than travel, refugees from furthest East – no further than Nipton though - would then send furrowed, empty glances and cluster together, reminiscent of the sudden storms blowing from the Divide .

Boone waded against the flow of hopefuls making for the road just north of the shantytown of tents and forlornness that had sprung up during his… absence. Behind him, the cracks of engines disturbed the morning stillness and lured the refugees forward, to the couple of deuces that rolled into town from the north not half an hour before. He could hear Lt. Monroe shout orders above the rumble and the white noise that accompanied any discontent crowd: the officer was urging people who were growing more desperate by the hour back from the first concrete hope they'd been presented in days.

An exercise in futility.

Even at a cursory scrutiny, too many milled about: Lt. Monroe had nowhere near enough places to satisfy all, nor men to handle the situation should the crowd decide to take matters in their own hands.

Boone was sure things _would_ take an ugly turn. They always did. He expected the first shots any minute now. His own lack of concern for that was almost enough to scare him, but he didn't allow himself more than a moment before he shoved that line thought aside.

He had bought a place for Ranger Stella on one of the deuces. It was the right thing to do, he had told himself as the world laughed at his selfishness and his belated attempts at redemption.

Between that and the fee due to Dr. Gannon his reserves of favors and caps both were skirting on the nonexistent. Funny thing was, he couldn't bring himself to care: he'd spent years shoring up the funds, years of service that painted his hands with the blood of innocents and turned sleep into a haunting prospect, but he'd told himself time and again that the outcome was worth it, worth it all. That Carla and their children – _'she wanted two'_ he remembered – would lack for nothing.

How naïve of him. Whatever God was out there had taken his good time, but his past's sins had finally caught up and then brushed past, taking away what he held dearest before he could blink.

Boone blinked now and was removed from his dreary mindscape only a few meters away from the link gate leading deeper into the motel. The lobby door swung open with a creak that managed to overcome the whooshing of the wind: out came an unremarkable man in plain garb, his sunken posture speaking of privation and desperation all too common around Novac. A couple of steps behind him, another one such as him followed.

Between the two of them they carried a stretcher weighed down by a body wrapped into a threadbare sheet. The wind licked at the edges and one badly-affixed end loosened at the corner.

A single foot poked from underneath, bare and wrinkled and bloodless. Boone watched the two porters move past him without a second glance and he spared them not a moment longer, but that foot monopolized his attention. He could easily imagine the woman it belonged to, her smarmy smiles and her bullet-riddled chest drenched in blood, and he wished he didn't.

The image came unbidden anyway, as did her slackening face under the ghostly echoes of bullet discharges. It reminded Boone of another face moments before another bullet ended her life, and for a moment he didn't know what ate more at him: that he pulled the trigger the first time, perched atop Cottonwood Cove, or that he _didn't_ the night before.

The leading man slowed as they carried their charge past him, casting a worried look over his shoulder that immediately found Boone and stopped at the 1st Recon beret perched on his head. A moment passed, then Boone squeezed his eyes under the shades and clamped down on the irrational thoughts singing at him so alluringly. He turned about and marched away, willing to leave behind those enticing possibilities with every step that widened the physical distance.

He _knew_ what lay in that direction: the same madness that danced around him those months after Bitter Springs, before he met Carla and dared to hope of a future together. He couldn't allow himself to walk that path, but it took every inch of discipline imparted by his elite military training not to turn back and turn into something _less_ that he had to be. Only when the Dino was well to his right and a few minutes had trickled by he dared to look behind him.

The stretcher was gone. Monroe had probably given orders to bury the body somewhere out of sight. It was more that Carla would ever have, face down in the Colorado, the currents carrying her further down and the mirelurks…

' _Enough.'_

The NCR soldier on guard duty had zeroed on him the moment he crossed the fence and tried his hardest not to fidget with his rifle now that Boone's course couldn't be mistaken any longer. Green as they got, with two brushes of hair he'd probably call mustache. Probably only a few months older than the minimum requirement for conscription.

Forlon Hope swallowed so many like him each year Military Command never released the true numbers to the general population.

"Ah, sergeant. Nobody's to see the detentee, detan… the detainee. Lt's orders. I'm sorry?"

Boone unslung his AXMC from his back and offered it to the boy, who let his own rifle almost clatter to the ground in the wide-eyed hurry to comply. Boone eyed him starkly for a moment and the boy swallowed, then he unbuckled his belt and slung it over the boy's shoulder, effectively disarming himself.

"Take good care of these."

"Yes. Yessir!"

The room was just as he remembered it: clean and carefully arranged. A worn NCR flag nailed above the headboard, two framed photos of their time in 1st Recon on the nightstand and the rack of _Astounding Awesome Tales_ – an almost complete collection – were in their usual places, as was the metal cabinet where Manny kept his spare guns and ammo. That one, however sat unbolted at the foot of the bed, a gaping emptiness where a small arsenal used to be.

The man in question sat on the couch, elbows on knees and staring at a threadbare scarf in his hands. A sewn skull grinned up unashamedly, a large blotch of red sporting an evil-guy mustachio and a horned helmet. Some of the color had faded and something had taken a bite at it at some point, judging by the missing tissue and loose threads on one end, but Manny held it tenderly in his right hand, a thumb brushing over the skeleton face. His left arm was cradled closer to his chest: fresh gauze was wrapped tightly around his shoulder where one of the stray bullets caught him.

Boone had laid eyes on that scarf only another time before, the last day of their second rotation with 1st Recon. An hour later, Manny had spoken for the first time of leaving the military, of Novac and of the future they could have there.

Pure, unbridled hate swelled in the sniper's chest and disfigured his face for a moment before he put a lid on it with a mighty struggle of self-control.

Manny didn't turn to face him, but there was no hiding the black bruise across his cheekbones and his mended nose. Nor his sigh of relief as he took a quick look at Boone.

"You came." His voice came out quite nasal too. "Who's on duty now?"

"One of Monroe's men," Boone found himself answering. He had yet to take a step further into the apartment after the door clicked shut behind him. "Andy will take your shift."

"Poor old man," Manny muttered. "So, it means you're leaving, huh? Good for you. I still don't know where they'll ship me."

"Look at me."

Under his leather jacket, Manny tensed. The scarf, vestige of his tribal past with the Khans, disappeared behind him and when he finally met his request Boone saw the NCR soldier staring back at him, not the man who couldn't bring himself to follow orders and open fire on his erstwhile family.

"Why?" Boone wanted to know. He _needed_ to.

" _Why?_ " A rueful, self-deprecating smile tugged at the corners of Manny's lips. "You're really asking me why? And here I thought that _you_ , of all people, knew me." The sniper squeezed his eyes as if to ward away some sudden pain. "Bloody, blind fool."

"She was mine," Boone hissed, his voice cracking. If with anger or something else, he couldn't tell. " _Mine_. It had to be me."

"And then they'd would have shot you, Craig. Bam, dead! Is that really what you wanted?"

' _Yes.'_ "You had no right."

"I had _every_ right! The right to stop my best friend from throwing his life away for… for some useless vengeance like Jeannie-May did! Look what happened!" Manny's eyes were wide and filled with undecipherable emotion. "It won't bring Carla… any of them, back. If they'd shot you… God, I don't know what I would do."

Boone let the confession wash away over him, and in its wake only a single emotion remained. "You hated Carla," he spat, every syllable dripping with disgust. "You are _glad_ she's dead." ' _That my child is dead.'_

Manny balked. "Is that what you think of me? That I take pleasure from your misery? Goddamnit Craig! We've been best pals since we were kids. I was your best man!"

Memories flashed unbidden and fresh wounds not even scabbed over started to bleed again. Carla at the altar, smiling as the priest prattled on, a yellow dress as her bridal gown and his dog tags for a ring. That first week of leave on the Strip, she singing on the stage and the whole casino hushing down when she looked at him and smiled. That smile, he could still see it…

' _No. Please, enough!'_

"This is not about _me_. It's about you being happy the Legion took my family!" Manny made to answer, but Boone cut him short with an accusing finger, all pretenses of stoicism shimmering away. "Don't deny it."

Manny was on his feet a moment later and Boone instinctually shifted a foot back a few inches, bracing himself for a tackle that never came. Manny's expression was one of pure outrage, of pain and betrayal and hurt, and Boone hated him all the more for it.

"After what we've seen those sick bastards do, how can you say that? Yes, I think you made a mistake marrying Carla. I never denied it, and we argued enough times about it even your thick skull should have gotten the idea by now. But Craig, _you_ loved her, and that's the only thing that mattered." He swallowed. "The Legion? Nobody deserves _that_. Not your kid. Not Carla. If you had told me instead on vanishing, I would have helped you. We could have saved them, together."

Would they? Would Manny's help have been enough? Regret gripped Boone's throat in an iron vise that made it hard to breath as his brain revisited those days of chase and the last few hours belly down, peering through a scope and despairing when hope withered and the only solution took form and consistence.

Self-preservation offered justifications and denial. _'There were too many. Hundreds of them.' 'We'd have been too far.' 'Not even with the entirety of 1_ _st_ _Recon.'_ Each and all rung hollow and fake, drowned in a wave of shattering regret. He tried, he _struggled_ to put a damp on it, but his thoughts and discipline failed him, if only for a moment.

Manny covered the distance between them in that moment and a rough, familiar hand offered Boone an hook to return to reality. He took it, no matter how much he wished he could just let it go and be done with it. Manny's eyes were rheumy at the corners and shone with sincere sympathy.

"Don't throw your life away on some suicide mission or pointless vengeance. After Bitter Springs, I tried both. None of it can bring back what is lost forever."

Boone drew a complete blank at that, but the moment passed and then was gone. Manny took a couple of steps back and turned about, reaching for the 1st Recon beret folded neatly on his nightstand. Boone hadn't even noticed he wasn't wearing it until that moment, but even that thought took a back seat to surprise when Manny pressed the cap into his hand.

"I don't deserve to wear this anymore, Craig," he said slowly and a thin, sad smile danced on his face for the span of a heartbeat. "Hell, I'll probably be trialed for executing a PoW or some other bullshit. No way they'll draft me back for another rotation. You hold on to this for me, for old times' sake huh?"

A gunshot echoed. A second and a third followed in quick succession and then more, until the screams and shouts made it impossible to keep the count anymore.

"That's not a service rifle," Boone said.

Manny gave him an odd look, but Boone was out of the room in two long strides and almost collided with the recruit guard on the way out. The green boy was fidgeting in his boots: his arms still encumbered by all the guns, he was visibly torn between his standing orders and instinct, be it fight or flight. Boone simplified the decision for him by retrieving his gear and latching it onto his body as he broke into a fast jog towards the gate.

Manny watched him go for a moment and his lips curled into a wistful smile nobody noticed.

"You're a good man, Craig Boone," he said, softly and to himself. "Don't let that change." The rookie didn't even notice him until he spoke and a bitter laugh bubbled inside of him and threatened to spill. Still, no use harassing the boy. By the time the boy-soldier collected himself and started to spill whatever formal tirade Monroe had imparted him, Manny had disappeared inside again and re-emerged after a brief clack of wood hitting the floor.

In his uninjured hand, a polished Heckler & Koch SMG-2 10mm Submachine Gun caused the rookie to gape and send a bewildered look into the room, where one of the cupboard's floor planks had been removed to reveal a cavity dug directly into the floor.

Manny chambered the first bullet into the barrel with some difficulty and forced a confident grin for the boy-conscript's sake. More voices were joining the firefight, drowning the other chorus of panicking people.

"Time to put up or shut up," he announced. It wasn't the most fitting one liner, but not too terrible either by his own biased judgement. The boy probably didn't even get it, but he swallowed and managed a nod that could signify anything, really. "Let's get a move on."

0 * MiA * 0

From the hills west of Novac, they came.

Ghouls. _Ferals_. Dozens of rabid walking-corpses draped in ripped brown vests stampeded down the road leading to the old REPCONN site, emaciated limbs flailing in their shambling charge.

By the time Boone crouched at the corner of the concrete platform housing the gas station, the main drove was halfway to the outer tents. The bulging crowd he'd left gathered around the deuces was caught in the throes of panic, worsened by the lack of any weapon of sorts: only NCR personnel, active or former, was allowed to carry personal weapons in the camp after the night's events. Over a hundred men, women and children suddenly found themselves unarmed as the writhing mass of limbs and hunger zeroed on their position, guttural and inhuman snarls voicing their violent excitement.

Lt. Monroe's forces had been arranged around the deuces to contain the displeased crowd, and now found themselves with a moving wall of disoriented, terrified people between them and where they needed to be. The Officer barked orders left and right, hands waving and pointing above the collective heads, the exact wording lost in the multiple choruses raising all around. The civilians didn't seem to heed him and most of his soldiers hesitated, caught between their need to follow whatever their orders entailed and their instincts screaming at them to flee or at least avoid being trampled to death by the crowd.

A few bold souls took initiative in their own hands and mounted atop the deuces' roof to gain a clear line of sight. Boone caught a glimpse of Ranger Andy's brown ceramic armour and a wide-brimmed hat somehow atop one, scoped Marlin Model 336 belching .44 magnums at the approaching ghouls like in the old days. On the other roof, a soldier stood up and cocked his arm back in a passable imitation of a baseball player: something brown and oval sailed in an arc for several seconds, then bounced against a ghoul's shoulder, struck another in the hip and disappeared.

The detonation sent several ghouls sailing in all directions as shrapnel and pressure reduced those too close to shattered torsos and mauled shapes barely recognizable as humanoid.

Boone took a quick count of the dead and picked his target.

The vast majority of the clothed ferals were booking it towards the deuces, egged forward by the rumbling of the engines and the tantalizing noise denoting an abundance of prey. The grenade had ripped a gaping hole and left more broken and hissing on the ground, but no more followed and the ferals were too far gone to care about comrades or their wounded. Whatever counter fire Monroe's men setting up was whittling away their ranks, but only theirs.

Others were caracoling for the camp mostly undisturbed, their advance barely swayed by the inaccurate fire of a couple of young caravaneers who had somehow retained their guns. There were a lot of people still around the tents though, and more were trickling in from the loading area. Boone spotted a few white coats carrying and herding a group of children through the rows of dull canopy.

Finally, a small group, no more than a dozen, had split from the main horde to shamble towards the McBride's ranch and their mooing brahmins. There, a single shouting gunslinger met them head on and Boone vaguely recognized the distinctive gunfire of a N99 High Power that alerted him in the first place as the 10mm bullets wreaked havoc into the blindly charging zombies.

Boone didn't hesitate. He aligned the scope with the nearest ghoul, compensated for the morning wind, breathed and squeezed the trigger. Compensate, align, squeeze. Compensate, align, squeeze. Mechanically, he repeated the cycle, an eerie, forced calmness descending on him as he did what he did best. Every time he squeezed the trigger, a rotten, snarling head exploded or an high caliber bullet pierced the target center-mass, sending the corpses back to their natural state and sprawling like ragdolls.

By the time he went through the first magazine and recharged, the pack of ghouls threatening the camp were down ten effectives, but ghouls didn't heed to concepts like morale or unity cohesion. They weren't soldiers answering to a superior officer, of an order of battle. Hunger ruled them, and hunger spurred them forward incessantly, uncaring of losses or personal harm.

Two shots into the next magazine, the first spilled past the perimeter and fell upon the impromptu defenders, claw-like fingers grasping and jagged, broken teeth gnawing at the nearest fleshy appendage. Outside his tunnel vision he could hear the barking of M16A1s and a variety of other weapons, but the screams of fear and panic soon became intermingled with others of pain and the rattles of death.

Boone continued to shoot, but the targets were becoming harder as they jumped on the civilians or loped through the tents. He caught one in its open jaw, obliterating the lower half of its head at it reared it back to bite at a downed woman, then brought his rifle up a few degrees and nailed another in the side before it could barge into a tent. He scaled the amounts of bullets left to him with every shot, focusing on the dwindling count rather than the screams and the twitching, trashing bodies set upon by the ghouls.

Those, he moved past, whittling away at the roaming ones who had yet to sink their teeth into a prey. The practical part of his mind reasoned that the feeding ones would be too taken with their meal to threaten anyone else for a time, but the more instinctual one yelled and protested, slowly chipping away at the bars of the cage of discipline he forced it into.

Someone else in camp had other ideas. A shotgun boomed loud and clear and through the scope he saw one of the feeders' heads explode into a fine mist of bones and blood. Another found its spine shattered, then a third slumped forward dead. By then, the remainder of the pack hissed and scurried to their feet into a crouched, swaying charge, hateful eyes set upon the Cassidy woman. He dropped one as the shotgun boomed once more, taking the legs out of the foremost as he adorned the head of the second with another hole. She took it in stride and filled the next two with lead as Boone dispatched the last with his last bullet and slung his rifle across his back.

The sniper unholstered his SIG P220 and vaulted over the concrete platform, landing in a crouch and sprinting toward the line of tents as the shotgun spoke once more. He cast a quick glance towards the loading area and saw Monroe being jumped by a feral donning brown, threadbare robes as all around the soldiers on the ground unloaded their last shots from the hip into the attacking corpses and unsheathed their combat knives or reverse-gripped their rifles as makeshift clubs.

Atop the deuces, marksman fire was growing erratic. He spotted Andy kick away an audacious ghoul with his good leg, then zero his rifle somewhere behind the truck and unload shot after shot on the targets underneath. Then he passed the first tent, and they all disappeared from sight.

He shouldered his way past a fleeing woman dragging a small child along by the arm and a moment after the entrance to the nearest tent bulged and was torn from the hangers as man and ghoul collapsed into a tangle of limbs and gnashing teeth. The man rolled on top and socketed the ghoul right in the face, then screamed as the feral's teeth bit into his retreating forearm. Boone shot another approaching roamer between the eyes, but as he turned to assist the wounded man, he was treated with a wet squelch, fresh blood on his pants and the sight of the man hitting the ghoul in the face again with adrenaline-fueled rage, this time palming a large stone that came away redder and gorier each time it rose again.

Boone moved past, gravel crunching under the soles of his boots where the slicker bodily fluids didn't attempt at his balance. His nostrils filled with the smell of spilled blood, gunpowder, perspiration and rot as another ghoul tried to get the jump on him. The SIG-Sauer was steady into his hand and the crack of gunfire deafening, but the ghoul dropped with a thud and Boone didn't tarry.

A scream, louder and shriller than any adult could ever spell. Boone rounded down on the nearest tent, something akin to dread sitting snugly into his stomach: the flap was torn away, and his eyes widened a fraction in recognition. He strode in and kicked the ghoul square in the side, teeth grinding into dust: the blow resonated up his leg as the thing's ribs snapped and the ghoul rolled away onto its bloated belly with an animalistic snarl. Boone put two bullets into it, confirmed that Doctor Alvarez, clad in a no-longer white coat was dead and quickly glanced at the still form of Ranger Stella on the bed; from what he could tell, she was still comatose, but unarmed, an empty IV plunged in the crook of her elbow.

' _Who then?'_

A whimper reached him. Huddled in the shadow of the far corner, half hidden behind a metal cabinet holding medical miscellanea, a pale girl hugged her knees, tearful, fearful eyes locked on him from underneath a brown fringe of hair specked with dirt. The practical voice in his head told him to return outside and rejoin the firefight – ' _the more I kill, the sooner it's over the safer they'd all be'_ \- but then the girl sniffled and words emerged from the whimper.

"P-Please, it killed her. It bit her a-and ate her and it will come for me too. Don't leave me alone _. Please._ "

The bars bent, then snapped. Before he knew it he was stepping over the dead doctor and then crouching in front of the girl. Her green eyes widened, in shock or fear he couldn't tell, but she didn't recoil from him. Without a word, he picked her up with one arm and she wrapped her skinny arms around his neck. She was light, too light as he adjusted her weight against his side, no older than ten probably, and for a moment Boone had trouble drawing breath that had nothing to do with the girl's tense grip around his neck.

"Don't look," he said to them both, and she girl buried her face into the crook of his neck as he moved around the dead doctor and the pool of blood widening around her. He looked over his shoulder at the comatose Ranger, conflicted on whether to leave her there, defenseless and prime picking for any ghoul, then steeled himself and stepped out.

' _The girl first. Then I'll get help, someone to carry the bed away.'_

Outside, the bark of gunfire had reduced to single shots intermingled with bursts of automatic fire that echoed through the labyrinth of canvas. Bodies, human and ghouls alike, littered the ground in twisted heaps, the blood turning the gravel and dirt into a treacherous, slick mire that licked at his boots with every step. An older man moaned feebly from underneath a ghoul not a couple of meters away, but Boone didn't attempt to reach him, mindful of the child holding on to him. Then movement caught his notice and he spun around, clutching the girl closer to his side and levelling his gun at the approaching figure.

The index moved away from the trigger when Doctor Gannon emerged from another corridor, some kind of plasma gun whirring with charged energy in a two-handed grip. The blonde doctor halted as he spotted the muzzle , then he seemed to recognize Boone behind it, sighed and waved at someone out of sight.

"It's safe, come on. The town's only a little way up!"

Fast, overlapping steps announced a small procession of refugees emerged from the same direction he came for, a few of them carrying makeshift clubs, rocks or the odd gun. They slipped past Boone, moving up towards the Motel, but nobody attempted to take away the girl. Most barely looked at him: their eyes danced wildly in their orbits at every shadow and every turn that could hide a famished attacker.

Boone didn't follow them, but grabbed at the two nearest men, one of which had been on burial duty what seemed to be hours before but his internal clock and the climbing sun said was barely half an hour, if that.

"There's a woman inside," he said, titling his head at the tent he'd just exited. The dead doctor's feet protruded outside and Gannon let out a small gasp, before muttering a name under his breath. "A NCR Ranger. Grab the bed and take her to the motel."

The unknown man made to protest, but the other elbowed him in the side, his eyes briefly gazing at the gun in Boone's hand more than at the 1st Recon beret on his head. With a brisk nod, the carrier disappeared past him and into the tent; his begrudging companion followed a moment later.

He turned to look for Gannon, aware of the slightly shaking girl in his arm, and found him at work kneeling beside the same man Boone had dismissed not a minute before. Cassidy was on the other side, her shotgun on the ground as she bent over the wounded man.

"Here. Put pressure here," the doctor was saying. From one of the many pockets of his coat he fished out a small bundle of gauze and quickly unrolled it. "Hey, keep those eyes open. Right, just like that. Now speak to me. What's your name?"

Boone never heard the man's answer. Rushing feet kicking gravel and the snapping of jaws had him spin around: half a dozen ghouls were shambling forward at great speed, hands caked in red and entrails dribbling from their yellowed, rotten chins.

"Cover your ears," he said to the girl. Then he levelled the P220 at the ghouls, and opened fire.

The girl jerked and cried into his shoulder and hurried to comply after the first shot exploded. Three more, and three of the ghouls were snapping their jaws only at the cold ground, but then Boone's mental count reached zero and the gun clicked dry. The remaining ferals didn't stop, rather picked up the pace: if it was because they understood he'd run dry or sensed the two more emerging from on his left, he didn't know. He put the girl down and pushed her towards the doctor with the back of his hand as a by now familiar shotgun boomed, but if the shot hit, it wasn't one of the ghouls in front of him.

The trio of robed, charging zombies were almost on him when the fresh magazine clicked into the gun. The first ghoul jumped ahead to claw at him first and received two bullets center mass for his trouble, but momentum carried the listless body forward to crash into him before he could as much as take a step away. The breath went out of his lungs like it didn't belong there and the Sig slipped from his grip as he landed onto his back and a jutting rock struck him in the kidney. His vision went white with exploding stars, and in a moment of stark clarity, Boone realized white would be the last thing he'd see.

The tearing never came. Nor the rending, or the sinking of teeth crushing his unprotected throat. Instead, the smack of colliding bodies hitting the ground and the crunch of bones accompanied the clearing of his vision. With a grunt, Boone managed to shove away the corpse riveting him to the ground and propped himself up on an elbow just in time to see a blood-soaked blade flash down and a skull-like rotting head sail a few meters away.

John Doe breathed out, spat and then levered himself on his feet with a huff and kicked away at the beheaded body underneath him. The mercenary was covered in blood from the tip of his hair to the soles of his boots: his shirt was ripped to shreds and several thin, claw-like cuts marred his face, chest and forearms, but the man seemed in higher-spirits than when he dropped him the bomb a few hours before, despite the carnage surrounding them.

As the last of the gray swam out of his vision, Boone noticed the bloodshot pupils and the twitching of the hand clutched tightly around a Legion Gladius. Had it not been the middle of a battlefield, Boone would have frowned at that and at the choice of armament, though he knew beggars couldn't be choosers, and the N99 at his hip clearly lacked a magazine..

He accepted the hand-up instead, and picked up his gun.

"You alright?" Doe asked quickly as he looked around. It reminded Boone of a deathclaw searching for prey, or a junkie on psycho moments before the engagement. "Those mutants didn't clip you?"

Boone offered a nod, and that seemed to satisfy the man's curiosity. Doe moved past him and Boone double checked the ghouls' bodies for safety, but there was hardly a way to be deader than having one's head removed from the shoulders, or one's skull caved in.

"John!" Cassidy called. "Come here and help me pick him up."

Boone scanned their surroundings as Doe and Cassidy hoisted the wounded man up between their shoulder, but it seemed no more ghouls were nearby. The gunfire had died down to isolated shots, but so had the screams and the snarls of the ferals. Through a gap among the tents, Boone caught a glimpse of Ranger Andy waving at him from atop the deuce and pointing at Novac. Boone waved back.

A tug to his pants shifted his attention downwards and he almost froze when he saw it was the girl, her face smudged with blood. For a long, terrible moment, he drew a complete blank. Then he crouched and checked her over for wounds, turning her head this way and that as gently as he could manage, but he found none. He was about to call over the only doctor in attendance when the blonde's voice piped up on its own, carrying that particular commanding tone only doctors could successfully pull off.

"Alright, don't budge him too much. Ehi, you two, stop right there!" Boone followed Gannon's pointed finger and spotted the two men he'd charged with taking Ranger Stella away slipping out of the tent, unburdened by beds or stretchers in any form. "Where are you going? There's a woman unable to move in there and you have two sets of hands. Pick up that damn bed!"

It was a dreary procession that left behind the ravaged camp and crawled up the small rise leading to the motel's gate. The distance was brief, but the going was slow despite the fear and apprehension for lingering ghouls: more than once they had to skirt around bodies or take a moment to steady themselves unless someone slipped or tripped, coming crashing down with their charges as well.

Boone took up the rear guard while Doe lead from the front after the doctor replaced him in huffing and puffing under the weight of his patient. The girl refused to let go of him until the fence gates swung open and a bloodied and battered Lieutenant Monroe welcomed them back.

It took gentle coaxing from a blonde woman who introduced herself as sweetly as she could as Doctor Luria to finally pry the girl away from Boone's hands and for a brief, selfish moment Boone's arm lingered, before he let go. The Doctor carried her through the crowd, the moans and the moans of the motel's courtyard and up the stairs to the second floor, where they disappeared in the room beside theirs. His and Carla's.

He swallowed down the spike of anguish until it cooled to smoldering embers in his gut and took a moment to recompose himself, then nodded at Ranger Andy beckoning him over and went to see what Monroe and the Old Ranger could want from Manny, Doe, Cassidy and him with everything else going on. A minute later, his faint suspicion was proven correct.

They set out half an hour – and a shower and change of clothes for Doe - later.

0 * MiA * 0

The first leg of the 'scouting expedition', as the NCR officer fancied it, was a tedious affair of sullen, stretched silences broken only by the echo of their steps against the rocky walls. The stripped rust-eaten skeletons of pre-war vehicles were the only other presence on the road and even less talkative than his companions, giving John a lot of time to spend alone with his thoughts. His _thought_.

" _The suit. His name is Benny. Head of the Chairmen Family in the Strip, he lives in the Tops Casino."_

A whole night spent watching Dusty McBride's sleeping brahmins had somehow cooled his spirits with the cold water of rationale reasoning. He may have a name, logic insisted, but things like 'the Strip' 'the Families' and 'Vegas' everyone spoke about so familiarly were to him only distant lights at night, inkblots on an map and vague notions patched together from hearsay. He'd need more information, a plan of action and to get there in the first place…

But he finally had a _name_. _Benny_. The rest of _Benny_ remained a big question mark above a suit, a definition that with some minor tweaking could fit himself too, but it was _something_. It had to be.

If he could believe Craig Boone's word to be true, that was . John stole a glance at him then and a pang of _something_ he couldn't put his finger on made itself known. The sniper hadn't said a word after the _other_ sniper, Manny Vargas, enacted his vengeance for him and almost got his head blown off for the trouble. He hadn't said anything as and after the Lieutenant sent them on their way the night prior. He'd just read the bill of sale for his wife and child, once, then pocketed it and John hadn't seen any more of him until the ferals attacked. And still, he kept his silence, a silence John was hesitant to break.

' _What reason has he to lead me along? None.'_

' _None that I know of.'_

John's finger twitched close to the trigger of the borrowed M16A1 and Cassidy glared at it and at _him_. He held it, and after a moment she rolled her eyes, turning to glower pointedly at the road ahead as if _it_ had slighted her and she resumed poking behind every rusted heap Remington first, wary of lurking ghouls.

' _Crazy woman. You and your crazy debts.'_

Ten minutes later they stumbled upon the first signs of trouble: a duo of ferals whose un-life Boone rectified in less than ten seconds and a couple of hisses from his silenced rifle. A massive overpass of chipped concrete spanned over the roadway at a straight cut angle, complete with fortified tool booth on one side and still surmounted by some lengths of chain fence along the top walkway, the sections too damaged and crumpling to attract the attention of even Novac's scavengers.

It reminded John of some medieval castle illustration he must have laid eye upon before _Benny, Top Cat of the Chairmen Family_ shot him in the head. And missed. Too bad for him.

John reached the first leaking sack of irradiated meat and kicked it on its back, pursing his lips as disgust welled and coiled in his belly like an angry beast. More dotted the asphalt here and there, their bodies smashed by some strong impact that crushed their bones into paste and gifted a lot of color to the dull monochrome of the asphalt. More than a few looked like their rotten meat had seen more than a few set of teeth.

"Monsters cannibalizing monsters," John scoffed and stepped over the corpse. "How appropriate. Who could have dressed them like some kind of old monk sect? Because _these_ clearly couldn't themselves."

Boone's voice echoed slightly as he disappeared inside what must have been an employee parking area slotted in a hollow underneath one of the ramps. A number of dead ghouls were congregated there.

"The last scavenging spotted a few by the tool both and a camp just further ahead. Armed ghouls, same robes. Definitely not ferals." A pause. "Damn."

"What's up?" Cassidy said, shotgun rising.

"Supermutant. Dead."

The light was lacking and the stench was awful, but neither stayed John from his first meeting with a 'Supermutant', albeit a dead and chewed upon one. The tall lump of violet meat was sprawled in a corner, its trunk like limbs dislocate and almost torn from their sockets by opposing pulling forces. Torn rags did little to cover a body muscled up to deformity, but what stopped John was the face, if it could be called so by any stretch of the imagination: a protruding, heavy set cranium, not unlike an ape's, that only possessed two small eyes, one of which missing, and a full-gum grin kept fixed in death by some form of harness wrapped around the back of its head and pulling its upper and lower lips away.

"This day is turning into a freak show." _'And you are the main attraction'_ , Legion Dog-Head's voice supplied without missing a beat.

"The ghouls tore him to pieces," Cassidy pointed out, her voice muffled behind her hand in a vain attempt to quell the stench. "What the hell is a nightkin doing here?"

Boone looked around. "Could be a straggler, but I see no stealth boy. There might be more around. Watch out for ripples in the air and the stench: you won't hear them walk until they charge you."

Cassidy let out an heavy breath and clutched her Remington tighter, but nobody had anything to say to that, and John was glad to turn back to their task rather than contemplate another misshapen horror of the wasteland.

They stumbled upon the camp the sniper mentioned just past the overpass: a semi-circle of sandbags arranged at a bend of the road and two shacks of tin foil and salvage, though the former had been scattered in places and more leaked where the cloth was torn or simply burnt away. John's nose wrinkled at the bodies of ghouls sprawled around: the stench of decay was stronger, as were the signs of feasting on the corpses still lying on patched mattresses or tossed around like ragdolls.

Cassidy cast a long, wary glance around, then picked up a duffel, dropped the contents on the pavement without much grace and started pacing around, stopping every few steps to pat a corpse or stuff a particular object in her newly-acquired bag. John took notice and reached for what looked like an ammunition box.

"Nightkins took these by surprise," Boone said, crouched and unbothered. "No casings, but plenty of empty e-cells. Supermutants don't usually use those: too fragile, too many little pieces. And the bodies look bashed in."

"There ain't any of those around here though," Cassidy huffed as she gathered up a decent pile of caps scattered around an upturned table and a broken chessboard, shifting the nearest dead ghoul aside to reveal a few more under the body. "Shame, things are worth a pretty penny."

"We aren't here to scavenge," Boone said, voice flat and mouth pressing into an impassible line.

" _You_ aren't, soldier boy. Good for you, you're better than me." she shot back. "Me and suicide cowboy here are quite broke however, and I know Cliff Briscoe wouldn't mind parting with a few caps for some of this stuff."

John glared at the ammunition box rather than give the irritant woman satisfaction and pondered whether or not it was worth just punching the lock open. _'Cassidy wouldn't mind, and it might get her to stop holding last night over my head.'_ The sniper, however, was still an unknown variable.

The man in question stood up and walked to the edge of the camp rather than continue the spat, then stepped over the sandbags and continued down the road.

"Great. Another jerk to add into the mix. Just lovely."

"Nobody asked you to come. You can go north anytime you want," John pointed out.

"Yeah, sure. Five minutes alone and you're bound to get shot to pieces. Take last night." The redhead looked over her shoulder. Not at him, rather at the NCR sniper's retreating back. "And this time they won't just let it slide with a warning and a chat over some drinks."

Ice shot down John's spine. "What did you tell them?"

"I _didn't_ tell them about your arm," Cassidy snapped. He still had his back turned to her, but he could hear her rising to her feet. Was she aiming the shotgun at him? "The rest? Pretty hard stuff to cover up with half a dozen Followers in town and you surviving wounds no average Joe has any right brushing off."

"Who? Who did you speak to? Who asked the questions?" _'The caps? Too few, unless she's keeping the rest stashed away. But then why come here? Why not be on her way? Why did she throw me down last night when they could have shot her as well?'_

' _Goddamnit.'_

"The leader of the Ranger party. Better him than those nutjobs of the OSI: right up the crazy alley, all of them. You'd get along like an house on fire. I guess his second knows too, and of course Doctor Alvarez – the one you scared to death - suspects." She paused, and her voice lowered a notch. "But she's dead. Out of the picture. Must be nice for you, hmm?"

"You think I have any idea why I'm a _freak_? You think I _want_ this?" he growled back, and punched the ammo box. The lock flattened and the whole top deformed around an indentation the size of his fist " _Benny_ took everything I was and left me with this body, a ton of questions and no fucking answers. Best part? No matter how much I try to delude myself, I'll probably will never get any of those answers. Not from _him_."

The sniper waited beyond the next bend in the road and John's concern whether he had eavesdropped took a temporary second place to the sight he was treated to. From the vantage point up on the road the REPCONN test site widened in all its tumbledown glory: a huge, double-winged complex dominated one end of what he had been informed was once, centuries and centuries past, a lake bed, now dry. The main building remained surprisingly well preserved, with radio antennas and globe-like decorative implements still standing proud against the wear and tear of time.

Several stories tall and enjoying a natural elevated position reinforced with several concrete emplacements all around its perimeter, it still failed to match in height the rocket-shaped monument that commandeered both the center of the valley and John's undivided attention for several seconds. Narrowing his eyes and with the sun behind him, he realized his assumption was dead wrong: the rocket wasn't a monument.

A moment later, it came to him that it must be a 1 on 1 reproduction of the real thing, one of the crafts meant to be launched from Bloomfield Space Center before the Old World soiled itself in nuclear shit. Or even one of the real things, repurposed to retirement ahead of its time.

" _Whoever held the reins here must have housed some serious delusions of grandeur. That, or over-compensation issues."_

Boone was crouching behind the skeleton of a Humvee pushed to the side of the road, rifle in hand and small lines creasing his forehead. "We are being watched."

Just then, John realized what a perfect target he was, square in the middle of the road. "Where?"

"Second to top floor. Can't say if human or ghoul, definitely not a supermutant." He turned to look into his scope for a few more seconds, then spoke again without taking his eye away from the lens. "Where's your friend?"

"She's coming," Cass bit back. The duffel strapped across her back jingled tantalizingly as she adjusted the strap around her shoulder and John couldn't help but appreciate in passing how the contents bulged and strained against the tissue.

"Eyes up here, cowboy."

Their descent was a cautious one, and done mostly in silence. Several smaller buildings, stripped of use and recognition by time and erosion, were arranged around the colossal rocket. Each corner and shadow, each pile of rubble could house a lurking zombie or hide the telltale shimmer of a stealth-boy. John kept a single eye always locked on the windows of the HQ's top floors, though with the naked eye the most he glimpsed, or thought he did, were flittering shadows and shapes.

The sniper led them around the main square, keeping close to the constructions on the right but not close enough for anything to jump at them without warning. Cars crowded another parking lot, some crashed into others, their seat and carcasses littered with chipped, white bones and grinning skulls. Those they skirted, wary of clawing hands reaching up from underneath.

Where the refugee camp had been a spiraling, chaotic stampede and the canyon amplified their very steps, any living or undead presence bar theirs had seemingly deserted the valley and a cloak of silence hung over the three like a shroud, cracked only briefly by their breathing and the soft padding of boots on the ground. No corpses rotted in the climbing sun, no feral shambled out to sate its hunger or follow whatever its rad-rotten brain commanded. The sniper shot John awaited from whomever populated the top floors never came either, and a few minutes of shuffling forward later, they reached the base of the steep staircase leading up to the front door.

The inner courtyard atop the steps offered a markedly different spectacle, one John welcome with more relief that the still emptiness below. If the checkpoint at the overpass had been the site of one-sided slaughter, here the robed ghouls had put up a far nastier defense.

John poked one of the hulks – _'Nightkins. Supermutants,'_ he reminded himself – with the muzzle of his rifle, then kicked it in the head for good measure to confirm it wasn't pretending. Four more, flesh cooked and limbs missing from concentrated energy fire, lay between the steps and the entrance, the doors bent and bashed in by superhuman strength and dangling from their hinges. More than fifteen ghouls however littered the floor in a carpet of torn brown robes and crushed bodies, huge concrete hammer-heads and rebar spikes still decorating some of them. A Supermutant and two ghouls were lying down in what might have been a lovers' embrace, if one of the ghouls wasn't bent backwards on its snapped spine and the other wasn't still holding onto the knife jabbed in the Supermutant's eye.

"These haven't been here long," Boone said, staring into the gaping, broken jaws of the entrance. "No longer than a day. Maybe less: corpses are still fresh."

John snorted, then scooped up a laser pistol and frowned at it and it's crushed casing, only to drop it. "How come nobody in Novac did notice either of them approach? I can understand these uglies and their stealth fetish, but the ghouls? You have quite the sight from that T-Rex's mouth."

"They came from elsewhere. Many paths cross the Black Mountains, some giving into the middle of the desert."

"You could have manned this place if it's so crucial to your survival," John retorted.

"It wasn't my decision to make."

"Is it me," Cassidy piped up, turning towards the front door with a frown. "or is there someone talking in there?"

Three muzzles were levelled at the entrance and after a moment, John crawled forward. The thick blanket of darkness ahead faded with every step, revealing the outline of a round reception desk, strewn rubble and more bodies caught in the throes of death. Overhead lamps swayed precariously from the ceiling, husks of shattered glass and odd sparks. He could hear the other two shadowing him and his own squishing steps echoed as he crossed the threshold only to dart to the left this time, knowing he offered a prime target to even the worst sharpshooter by standing in the door's light.

The crack of static and the croaking voice that accompanied it almost made John jump out of his bones and punch the grimy interphone there and then.

"Hey, smoothskins. Are you listening? The Prophet said you would come. Go to the loading area in the east wing, the one with the metal staircase. The Demons are waiting there, and then we'll talk."

" _Prophet_? What are you – "

"Stop wasting time and get over here."

0 * MiA * 0

There weren't many options but doing their best not to walk blindly into a situation that stank of trap even when surrounded by the decomposing corpses of mutants. Cassidy suggested one of them should hike back to Novac, but their very presence ankle deep in what looked like some sort of ghoul-Supermutant feud bespoke of what kind of support they could receive from the thin and harried town garrison, and there was no telling how the situation, murky as it was, could escalate if they tarried overlong.

In the end, Cassidy canned that line of action herself and the sniper guided them through a covered, porticoed walkway that run outside around the base of the complex all the way to the east wing rather than brave the maze of close-quartered ambush sites that would make everyone ripe pickings for cloaked Supermutants.

John didn't particularly despise _that_ idea: the revelation of Benny's identity had stirred something primal in his gut, something the night on watch cooled but the ghouls' stampede reawakened with a vengeance. Part of him, including his wounded pride, couldn't help but wonder how he'd fare against one of the blue, lumbering beasts if push came to shove, and more than once, when he thought he spotted a shimmering in the air, it was eagerness that came to the front rather than worry, or fear.

Eventually, however, they had to abandon daylight and plunge into the belly of the REPCONN building through a service entrance. Inside, the air hung still and thick with dust and moisture, but overhead neon lights shone and even the broken ones flickered with current from exposed cables. A layer of sediment grime coated the naked walls and the floor, putrescent papers mixing with sand and dirt blown into the cracks of the walls and ceiling.

Water pipes remained exposed underneath and condensation coated the rusted metal in beads that gave up to gravity at times, plinking and pinging like arrhythmic heartbeats . The air was so damp the dust clung to their exposed skin and clothes and snaked into their eyes and nostrils. John quickly came to envy Boone's glasses in that department

"This place has a power plant of its own or what?" asked Cassidy, then flinched as her voice bounced off the walls and dispersed into an all-encompassing echo.

Boone, in the lead, settled for an inscrutable glare from behind his shadowed lenses. "Reactor," he whispered. "Ghouls must have switched it up. Now, be silent."

They crept forward, past empty rooms stripped to nakedness, offices where only the imprints of furniture remained and empty boots cluttered with broken, burnt terminals and other worthless junk nobody bothered to pick up. John brought up the rear and slung the M16A1 across his back, opting for the more familiar Sunny and the gladius for the small confines of the veritable labyrinth. The sniper seemed to know his surroundings though, because never once he paused at the crossroads of sorts.

Ten minutes passed by just so, then Boone rose a clenched fist. Cassidy, looking elsewhere, would have stumbled into him if John hadn't caught her at the last moment.

" _Two."_ The sniper gestured. _"Around the corner. Supermutants."_

John made to answer, but a creak cut him short. He spun around, catching a glimpse of Cassidy's eyes going wide as saucers and a acrid waft of ozone combined with pungent body odor, then Sunny was pointed at the forehead of a Supermutant clad only in a loincloth and a cowl, its face pulled back in a feral grin by a leather harness.

It was also pointing a flamethrower right at them.

" _How did it get behind me?"_

A stealth boy was latched to the mutant's wrist, the grey device comically small around the meaty limb. John's index hoovered over the trigger and a disembodied, stern voice in his head commanded him to shoot and kill the mutant, that he would survive, he already had, and he was in the _right_. Then he heard more steps thundering closer from behind him and he didn't dare to turn, but Cassidy's voice and Boone's curse were enough to clean the haze and remember he wasn't alone.

"John…"

"Human put weapon down and human don't _look_." the Supermutant growled, words crude and grating to listen to. John almost shot him there and then as the thing _talked_. He didn't, but he didn't lower Sunny either, nor he removed his finger from the trigger. The Supermutant's face hardened and turned uglier. "Captain says humans work for ghouls, so kin humans don't kill for now. Kin takes humans to Captain and you talk, but only if human put weapons down and stop _looking_ at kin!"

John seethed, gritting his teeth and felt the retort form word for word at the tip of his tongue. Only the insinuation that he had anything to share with the _zombies_ made his vision pulse red, and he almost followed along with what that suggested. Then Cassidy's hand was on his shoulder, her grip tight to the point it hurt, and he remembered other times, seemingly so removed and yet so close.

The desert, the Legion charging. Fight rather than flee. Smoke and crosses and the bruises of a collar around her throat.

A storm. Churning insides warm around his hand and a body cold at the touch. Blank eyes, broken spirit and the anguish of an old man.

The Supermutat hefted its weapon higher. John closed his eyes, exhaled as if he could bowl the mutant over by breath alone like a titan of old and lowered Sunny. If the Supermutant was pleased, its expression didn't show it.

"Humans walk. If human shoot, kin will burn humans, then give you to centaurs. Raw human sinewy and tasteless. Cooked human better."

It took all of John's self-control to holster Sunny and not discharge the entire magazine into the mutant's face. Two more, whom the thundering steps belonged to, had come up on Boone's side, makeshift clubs of rebar and concrete clutched in their paws. John felt those bestial grins mock him and taunt him, but the flamethrower-toting creature kept behind the trio and egged them forward, well out of reach and still close enough for the threat to be effective.

John looked at Boone, but the sniper shook his head. The man remained calm and in control: his eyes never rested too long on their blue captors and his gait was poised, like a panther's biding its time and ready to strike. _If_ he intended to do so, however, John couldn't tell.

Cassidy had paled considerably at the mention of 'centaurs' instead, and whatever the things were, the fondness with which the nightkin spoke of it didn't sound encouraging to John either. In an effort to distract himself, he mirrored her gesture but avoided the excessive squeezing and to use his left. She glanced at him, took a long, steadying breath that had her eyes turn rheumy at the stench around them but nodded, and John let go.

They were led past the office areas and through a couple of larger corridors that gave into spacious storage rooms decorated with empty shelves caked in dust. Here and there, charging pods for robot units stood like silent sentinels, their charges long destroyed or relocated by the enterprising population of Novac.

Then the storage rooms were behind them and John spotted lances of sunlight spearing through the cracks on a distant wall on the second floor, a large swathe of which was visible above them where the ceiling had collapsed. The Supermutants veered to the left, away from the light, and proceeded down a short ramp and through thick, rotten wooden doors already swung open, humans in tow.

A single Supermutant awaited inside behind a large desk littered with stacked clipboards and human bones. It was holding up a human skull in its large hand, beady eyes boring deeply into the shadowed sockets, leathery brow furrowed into thick creases. It turned the skull around slowly, then pulled it closer to its face and whispered with the same subtleness of mortar fire.

"Antler, is it you?"

The skull forsook to answer, and the blue giant snarled in sudden, unbridled rage. Its hand came down on the desk and the skull exploded into a shower of splinters and white dust. The Supermutant howled, a piercing sound that had everyone recoil, and John was inches away from drawing his gun when the sound was reduced to bouncing echoes and the creature's eyes fixed on him with an almost palpable weight.

"Humans. I can smell you. Draw your weapons and you feel Antler's horns. Be good human, and kin gives you freedom."

' _Free to leave, die, or to turn into something like you?'_

It was Boone who stepped forward, however, his voice slow but firm, devoid of emotion. "We don't have any quarrel with you, kin. Neither does Novac. Why are your people here?"

John stared and stepped between the flamethrower and Cassidy, but the jet of liquid fire never erupted. The Supermutant leader took its small head between its paws and made as if to squeeze its own brains out, then shook it and stomped on the floor, eliciting a sharp crack of shattering tiles.

"Men of steel and men of flesh search and probe. Tabitha says kill them all." Its eyes shot open, and John could see the madness in them. He tapped Cassidy's shoulder, and she stiffened under his touch, but the muzzle of her shotgun steadied. The other mutants didn't seem to notice. "Then different man takes the climb, challenges for entrance and kills Green child. Tabitha wants to kill him, but Good Man brings gifts, Stealth Boys, and says kin are strong, stronger than him human, stronger than _any_ human. Good man respects strength and tells Tabitha more gifts here. Gives invoice. More Stealth Boys at REPCONN, it says."

The Supermutant howled again and the desk's surface caved under its weight as he struck it with both elbows, still clutching its head. John took a step back. "Antler says no, trap in Good Man's red smile, Good Man is cunning and sly and fake. So Tabitha crushes Antler instead! She says I am with Marcus, but I still remember Master! I remember _Unity_. Master was best thing that ever happened to kin. Master God! Nightkin strongest with Master, until Master goes boom!"

Cassidy let out an horrified chortle, but the other Supermutants were cheering, their hollers shaking the moldy plaster off the walls, and only John noticed. He took another step back and Boone's head tilted his way, a nod he might have missed had he blinked.

" _Lies!_ " the Supermutat exploded, and pointed a meaty finger at John. "Humans lie! Good Man lies! All lies! Antler was right, but Antler _gone_! Ghouls already here, with their Prophet and their energy weapons and many kin die trying to take stairs and room with Crack Shot. Good Man says kin are stronger than with Master if kin fight other humans now, but kin cannot fight without Stealth Boys, or kin end up like Marcus and Keene!"

Another step, and the muzzle of the flamethrower pressed between his shoulder blades. John stiffened, then willed his muscles to loosen and glanced up at the ugly visage of one of the mutants.

"Human listen to Captain Davison, or human flambé."

Boone tugged at the strap of his rifle and fell on one knee in one fluid motion: the loud hiss of the silenced rifle was amplified in the close confines of the office, then drowned as the Supermutants bellowed. John was already mid-motion: he spun and bashed the flamethrower's muzzle with his left away from his companions as he unsheathed the gladium with his right and sliced at the wrists holding the cumbersome weapon up. Momentum drove the blade deep, even into the Supermutant's thick skin, then Cassidy's shotgun barked.

One of the rebar-toting uglies was cured of the affliction of life as the 12-gauge turned its face, throat and right shoulder into so much mush, but the beast still lumbered forward. Boone let his rifle hang from his shoulder after expelling the spent casing and withdrew the P220. The other mutant with a passion for melee staggered forward, green blood falling in thick globs from its mouth and flooding from the hole in its chest.

Davison roared and John felt excruciating heat wash over his left arm, but the jet of ignited gas went wide. It sprayed at the wall before spreading to the ceiling. John wrenched the gladium away, danced around a boulder-sized fist and hacked at the injured hand again, wincing as the Legion steel ground against impossibly thick bones.

The Remington Wingmaster boomed again and a heavy thud stressed its efficiency, then the desk exploded in a shower of splinters as Davison charged _right through_ it. Boone dropped his target with three more shots between the eyes, then threw himself to the side and rolled hugging his rifle as a super-sledge sailed where his head had been only moments before.

A kick connected squarely with John's chest and he was sailing one way as his breath went the other, but muscle memory was more resilient than brain memories and he caught himself with a half roll, drawing as he landed. Sunny's shots were whispers to the shotgun's, but the green tears that blossomed on the Supermutant's face were just as deathly. The flamethrower-wielder let go of its weapon, which cluttered to the floor as paw-like hands clawed at its own face in blind pain, its hulking body jerking and spasming.

Cassidy's shotgun barked again, but Davison was too quick, too maddened and the shot barely clipped him as the rest decorated the wall with yet another hole. Cassidy worked the pump frenetically and Boone placed half a dozen .45 bullets in the Supermutant's back, but the creature shrugged them off and surged forward, waving a warhammer the size of a child like it was a rack of paper. The wall exploded with a deafening bang above her and Cassidy cried hoarsely as debris showered her and dust clogged at her eyes and throat; she staggered and coughed as Davison swung his hammer again and Boone dropped the empty handgun, AXMC already rising.

John threw his whole weight at the sledge as his right drove the gladius into the Supermutant's throat, but Davison bent to the side and the blade only trailed a thin, green line on the thick skin. The human barreling like a cannonball into his swing spoiled its aim however and he staggered, the weapon almost wrenched from its hands. John bit down on the pain flaring across his ribs and grabbed the hammer's shaft with his left as the blade flashed in an arc across the mutant's eyes.

Then he was flying through the room, and Boone's rifle hissed like the crack of thunder.

He connected with the far wall moments later and the small of his back wailed as it found the super-sledge's head and not putrescent plaster to soften the impact. John crumpled to the floor as Davison fell on one knee, the other mush courtesy of Boone, but its moment of weakness passed and it staggered on both feet, grabbing at one of his dead kin's rebar clubs.

Cassidy was coughing and crawling to her shotgun at the same time and Boone barely dodged a wild swing that would have turned his insides into goop. John got on all fours and dry heaved, then grasped at the super-sledge's handle and propped himself up. The rebar club connected with the floor in a shower of detritus that hid Boone from view for a moment, then the shotgun boomed and Davison snarled, one arm dropping limp along a mangled side.

" _HUMANS FEEL ANTLER'S HORNS!_ "

Davison kicked Boone away and the sniper went sailing above and behind the desk, then turned around with a speed that nothing with _that_ much lead in its body had any right to pull off and charged at Cassidy, whose hands shook as she fished out fresh shells to feed her empty gun.

John's left closed around the super-sledge and his legs carried him forward. Then he was spinning, momentum struggling to tear the super-heavy weapon from his grip, and when the hammerhead connected the backslash threated to snap his spine.

Davison's ribcage _did_ snap as one of the super-sledge's heads disappeared into its chest. The Supermutant shuddered to a stop, then stumbled back and its bad legs gave way under it, leaving it growling out blood and propping itself up by clutching at the rebar club. John kicked it in the face and wrenched at the super-sledge with a snarl: it came away with a wet squelch, dripping green ichor, but Davison didn't go down. It glared at John, panting and gurgling as it tried to speak, its eyes burning with hatred.

John swung the sledge down on its head with a wordless cry and green blood splashed all over his face.

He let go of the hammer and doubled over, panting and trying to spit out the blood in his mouth as the corpse collapsed with a thud and a clang and the floor shook. Then it kept shaking and shaking as heavy feet thundered closer and closer, guttural voices hollering in rage of betrayal.

"Throw the bag!"

Boone was on his feet, sniper rifle propped on an intact segment of the desk and aimed at the door. The gun belched and Cassidy was working the strap around her shoulders after a moment's hesitation, the duffel jingling jollily with caps. John grabbed it from her, body working on auto-pilot as his mind struggled to keep up, and pushed her towards the desk as Boone's rifle spoke again.

The bag struck the foremost nightkin straight in the face and John's throat dried at just how _many_ clogged the entrance, each pushing and shoving against the others and two of Boone's victims to get their paws on the humans first. The bag bounced back and plopped on one of the corpses, beady eyes following it in surprise and annoyance, and John saw Boone expel a spent casing and adjust his aim.

A lightbulb switched on and John hightailed towards the desk, adrenaline pumping through his veins and sending every cell of his body into overdrive. He picked Cassidy up bodily, wrapped his hands around her taking advantage of her confusion and jumped over the edge as the rifle kicked back and the sniper threw himself onto the ground.

The bag detonated in a ball of blinding, white-hot plasma that evaporated everything in a two-meters radius. Walls, ceiling and pavement disappeared and the closest Supermutants didn't scream because they had no time to before they were reduced into smears of bondless goop. The shockwave came next, rolling out like an invisible cloud of doom and heat that invested the desk and flowed through the gap the late Davison created.

Boone had tucked himself away deep under the desk, but John, shielding Cassidy with his body, took the brunt of it. Heat washed all over his skin, sizzling his hair and lapping at his bare skin. He squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath and placed an hand on Cassidy's face to do the same to her, speaking not being an option: she groaned, but she didn't bite, and then it was over.

The Supermutants were still screaming, loudly and excruciatingly, but rage had melted away with most of their flesh to be replaced by pain: the sheer heat and the plasma burned through them and set their tumbling bodies on fire, turning them in stumbling, writhing mutant torches.

John peeked over the scorched surface of the desk and couldn't help but look away: he had thought his nose and stomach had both been desensitized by Primm and later Nipton, but he found himself pushing down on the bile while Cassidy wiggled away from his grasp and emptied her stomach's contents on the ground, coughing and spitting. The sniper's face had assumed a slight shade of green, but it was without complain that he picked up John's M16A1, braced against his shoulder and started silencing those blood-curling manifestations of agony.

"What… what the fuck did you stash in that bag?" John gasped, licking his cracked, dry lips. He felt an answer forming up even as he asked her the question, but the whole act of speaking was really more of an effort to distract himself and get his bearings. "Those were no simple energy cells."

Cassidy gagged, puke and saliva dribbling down her chin. She spat with a shiver, took a small breath, then retched again.

"Plasma grenades," Boone offered. A three-rounds discharge and the flailing of heavy limbs on the floor quieted with the last of the shrieks. The fire continued to burn merrily, however, fueling on grime and bodies, its tendrils licking at the walls and ceilings, trying to expand on the damp surfaces. "We better get out of here."

John offered Cassidy an hand up and she accepted it: he winced as she pulled hard on him to get on her feet, his left side and back a single, throbbing flare of pain. He pressed his right against his tender ribs as Cassidy wobbled up and he had to bite down on the insides of his cheeks to suppress a groan. His thoughts turned to the couple of stimpaks the Followers had parted with for their expedition, but he pushed it aside a heartbeat later.

' _I'll heal. The others wouldn't.'_

Boone was already starting towards one of the holes in the walls as the main door, enveloped with flames, wasn't a doable option. A slight limp spoiled his gait, but if it bothered him he didn't let it show: the M16A1 he held up butt-first to act like a club or a pickaxe, but when John made to join him, Cassidy tugged at his left.

"John," she whispered urgently. "Your _arm_."

The explosion had knocked off some of the lights, and John was immediately thankful it was Cassidy who noticed it and not the NCR sniper. The skin on his artificial forearm had been burned to a crisp where his side had only suffered some minor burns, but unlike the latter the blackened, cracked tissue was rejuvenating under his very eyes. There was no pull or stretching like in Primm or the morning before, barely any discomfort, just a minor sense of fatigue that crept up on him and settled over his shoulders.

Strips of crispy flesh fell off and turned to ash as they touched the ground, but by that time a new film of skin had already spread over to replace it. John caught a glimpse of something translucent and _flowing_ underneath, then only pink, raw flesh remained. The whole process couldn't have taken more than a handful of seconds, and John had a feeling in a couple of minutes the whole arm would be undistinguishable from before he parried a flamethrower.

Cassidy swallowed visibly, exhaled and nodded jerkily at him before walking off. _'She has seen it too,'_ he realized. Something coiled and settled in the pits of John's stomach and he made to grab at her, not unkindly, but she jerked her arm away at his touch. A few meters away, Boone was hammering and kicking at a partition, widening the hole already present. John tried to tell himself the expression on her face was due to the awful stench polluting the air and the close call with enraged, huge mutants and the fire spreading and a lot of other things that weren't fear of _him_ , but it rang hollow.

"Cass-"

"It's… it's alright," she said quickly. Too quickly. "Let's just get the hell out of here before we end up like gecko steaks, ok?"

John watched her retrieve her shotgun, dust it off and hug it close to her chest. He found he didn't have it in him to curse, so he just picked up the super-sledge from Davison's corpse and focused on the searing pain from his hands, dead tight around the scorching metal as he started hammering away at the wall.

0 = MiA = 0

 _AN: Novac will be done by next chapter, which is already half-written. This chapter just kept growing and growing until I had to split it in two or it alone would be the size of a novelette. So, I'm afraid next chapter will wrap up Come Fly with Me and Novac, and Veronica will be the next. Apologies._

 _After next chapter, which should be out in a week or so accounting for a through proofread, I'll probably stick to a 10k+ chapter-a-month, as my time for writing has considerably reduced. Which only means I'll just waste less time lollygagging and more getting actual writing done. To those interested in the Wasteland Legends Universe (pretentious, I know) the 'prequel-I-can't-write-before-the-sequel-or-I'll-spoil-most-of-the-storyline',_ _ **WL: The Thin Line**_ _, has updated twice since the last chapter of MiA, another reason why this chapter is slightly late._

 _Again, my deepest appreciation to all the people reading and supporting this story._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Alexeij_


	10. 9) End, Beware the Means

**Chapter 9) End, Beware the Means**

 _AN: My thanks to_ _ **Aegon Blacksteel, Designation A1-13, N7HG, WastelandScribe, Pro Assassin, RadioFreeDeath**_ _and_ _ **DocMarten2525**_ _for their reviews, support, and critiques._

 _To unnamed Guest: It's more of a homage to ShoddyCast and the Storyteller series, really. They share the name, but the characters are different, and really, my Tanner has a minor role in the fic. Besides, after the last episode, I can't even aspire to reach **that** level of badass._

 _For reference's sake, Jason Bright is the Prophet. I call him 'it' at some points because those segments are from John's POV. And he's a racist jerk._

0 = MiA = 0

John wished the entire REPCONN test site had burned to the ground.

Sadly, the air was too dank, courtesy the exposed and somewhat still running water pipes, for the fire to really spread out beyond the nightkin-fueled bonfires. When the ghouls appeared with their fire-control balls, the monoammonium-phosphate powder took care of the issue, leaving the entire battlefield layered in a film of gray that puffed into small clouds under every step.

All of the ghouls were garbed in the same heavy brown robes that hung from many of the ferals. That, in the hazy, nervous aftermath of the battle, almost earned the first rotfaces who came to investigate a welcome of lead from the three humans. It was Boone's sharp eye that noticed the weapons they toted before John could cure them of their condition.

And so it was that the humans met the first members of Bright's Brotherhood capable of coordinated movement and of articulating speech.

At the Prophet's request, they relocated two levels underneath the east wing, away from the corpses and any natural light. Not that they ever lacked in illumination, even in the corridors where only the emergency pathways glowed out of sequence a dull red.

The Prophet had invited them to sit around a table and discuss, rather than shoot each other to pieces. Which, again, had nearly turned from possibility to fact when the Prophet first emerged from its followers' ranks and the mystic figure turned out to be a hunchback, bloated parody of human anatomy shrouded in elegant clothes. John would have given it a large serving of lead, if not for his companions' intervention.

" _Whoa, what the hell!? They're not ferals, cowboy. They speak. They got weapons. Don't go create us more problems."_

So they talked and then sat together to talk some more, humans and zombies and parody. The Prophet's followers offered them all Rad-X pills to munch on, to safely remain in attendance of their leader. Even a single glance at the radiation blisters forming and breaking on the thing's skin was enough for John to begrudgingly accept.

"You set us up with the nightkins," were John's first words. He did not bother to phrase them as a question. "You _used_ us to solve your little mutant problem."

The two other robed, _cognizant_ ghouls in the room, plasma rifles inclined in front of them in the fashion of militaries or gangsters, took offense at his tone. But when their leader raised a warped hand cratered with missing digits, they stood down just as quickly.

The Prophet remained unruffled, poised and calm as any Cicero in his torn pre-war suit. In the dim lights of their surroundings, the abomination cast a light of its own, a soft halo that shone underneath the paper-like skin stretched over its bloated features. Light shone even from within its sockets, making it painful to hold its gaze for longer than a few seconds.

One more reason to envy the sniper's shades.

The Prophet's deformed face was arranged in an expression that might have translated to 'serene', had it still possessed enough working muscles. As it was, John's stomach gave a tight squeeze, voicing its complaints. The sight, for once, was actually worse than the stench of decay and cadaver wafting thickly in the conference closet they were holding this charade council in.

"The Creator sent you to aid us, his children. I harbored no fear that you would overcome any challenges posed between you and your task." Bright's voice reverberated with an inner echo that was only amplified in the oppressing quarters they found themselves in: a quality John couldn't wrap his mind around and filed away as another weird mutation.

' _The thing is glowing with sheer radiation, for fuck's sake!'_

"I truly hoped the Demons could be reasoned with and shown the wrong of their ways," the thing continued. "Alas, for too long the corruption lingered in their flesh. It's something I've seen many times, an irreversible contamination more often than not, but can one be blamed for hoping for his wayward brother's redemption? I still apologize for what you had you live through, but as His Envoys, the Creator's Light would see that no harm came to you."

John's back and ribs flared up with lingering pain as if they had a will of their own, but he didn't voice his incredulity. He was too ensorcelled in trying to make sense of the load of bullshit that had just been waxed into his ears.

Cassidy didn't share his atypical, shocked restraint. Her complexion was pale under the soot smudging her face in long streaks where she attempted to clean herself. She leaned forward on the table, grey eyes flashing. "No _harm_? Those Blues nearly turned us all into scrambled omelets! Whoever your God is, his boons leave much to be desired."

The Prophet's smile was meant to be benevolent, but John couldn't see past the rotten shards of teeth or the black, dry tongue. "The Creator operates in ways even I often cannot fathom to comprehend, but I've seen His power at work too many times for doubt to still subsist. In times of great need and peril, He enacts His Will through unwitting Envoys. You weren't the first, but if He so wishes, you will be the last."

"We are nobody's _messengers_ ," John spat and matched the glare he received from the bodyguards with one of his own. "Sure enough not of some Zombie rip-off God. This whole set-up," he indicated the whole room and its occupants with a single, sharp flick of his wrist. "it stinks. And it's not you. It stinks of third-rate Jesus Christ wannabe. Too bad you've got no beard, but the halo is definitely there."

"Prophet! How can You stand these heathens blaspheming in –" the vocal bodyguard took a step forward but quieted at another calm gesture.

"It is not for us to question the Envoys of our Creator, Brother Campbell, nor to force them to see the Light if they refuse to. His Light, His Way, we know it's not for their kind. The First Saint who defeated the Great Demon, the Envoy who destroyed that cold and dark place of corruption back East and freed the first of our Brotherhood, he too was skeptic and mistrustful in our ways. And yet he fulfilled His Purpose and allowed us to commence the Great Journey."

' _Would that he put a round in you and be done with it.'_

"The ferals, you brought them here." Boone's voice was flat and snapped like a whip through the 'Bless Him' mutters of the ghouls. John eyed the two bodyguards: plasma rifles were clunky and slow on the draw, two weaknesses that could be easily capitalized. Under the table, he spotted Boone's holster unlatched. So was his.

It wasn't the explicit threat of the guards that unnerved John, however: the body counts outside spoke none too flatteringly of their skill; rather, it was the Prophet's eerie glowing that put him on edge.

The Prophet's peaceful visage slackened, sadness and grief washing over its entire posture, hunching it further. "We did. The Creator's Light is benevolent, but as with all Lights, Shadow is never far. Many of our Brothers and Sisters fell victim to that Shadow over the years, the same that birthed the Demons, and in our long travels, the Brotherhood has drawn more with the promise of haven and healing. We kept them on the lower floors, safe and secure as the preparations for the Great Journey were completed. When the Demons attacked us, they accidentally freed them: members of the Brotherhood are already out there in an attempt to gather them up."

"Don't harbor them any ill-will," the Prophet continued. "They are like children, dangerous to themselves and unable to control their instincts. Any that you spare is another life that will be restored in the Far Beyond."

"They're _ferals,_ " Boone stressed the word, and John's respect for the man went up a notch. "They attacked Novac at dawn. They killed men. Women and children."

The Prophet hid its bloated face with a hand and sighed. One of the bodyguards placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, glaring over it. "It saddens me greatly to hear of any lives lost. The Demons exacted a great toll on our Brotherhood, though some may yet be saved, and indirectly caused your people great suffering too. That you are here – " it exhaled, trying to work its lipless mouth to spell the words. "That you are here… Does it mean that none have been spared?"

It took John a moment to realize what this Prophet was referring to. He leaned forward, gripping the conference table so hard Cassidy shot him a worried look. " _None_ ," he hissed through gritted teeth. "Next time, keep a better leash on your pets."

He half-expected the bodyguards – at least the vocal one, _Brother Campbell_ – to try and shoot him there and then. He was ready, had been since the whole charade started. He was between Cassidy and their line of fire, and the sniper was quick enough he could probably nail both with his sidearm before any of them lined the first shot. But Boone had also been the one who had insisted they heard the ghouls out first, wary of their firepower if not of their skill, and John had promised he wouldn't fire the first shot unless under explicit threat.

He hadn't said anything about keeping his opinions to himself. _'Just give me an excuse, rotface.'_

"We'll meet them again in the Far Beyond, one day," the Prophet recited, voice heavy and strained. "If their faith was strong and their spirits didn't waver, the Creator will grant them new life in his Hallowed Land. Brother Campbell, please go fetch Saint Christopher. The time of the Great Journey grows near, but much still remains to be done. Return when the preparations for the Rite of Replenishment are finished."

"You had dozens killed by bringing a _horde_ of fucking ferals half-an-hour away from a town!" John shouted, left hand inches away from drawing Sunny. He had dropped the Super Sledge after they squirmed out of Davison's office, but there and then it would have been only dead weight. "There's no religious bullshit screen you can hide behind."

The Prophet turned to regard him, but when its eyes, two bright pools where inkdrops of fading blue could still be distinguished, bore into John, there was no anger, no annoyance, no hint of pride or wounded majesty in them. Only sadness, and pity that leaked into its voice. John forced himself to hold that stare until his eyes teared up and turned rheumy at the edges, then had to break contact.

"I can feel great anger and contempt in your spirit, child. Both for us, and for yourself." John stiffened, searching for an answer, but he found none. "Guilt is eating at you, feeding on your doubts, and you repress it for the sake of a vengeance that won't bring you the redemption you seek, only a great hollow, and drive away those who might yet fill it."

"Do not fret. I won't withdraw from my responsibilities: believe me when I say I will receive my due, in this life or the next. But if that is not enough for you, Envoys… You, soldier of great heart. What is the sentence imposed for manslaughter in this region?"

"Prophet, You cannot be thinking to submit to _their_ laws now! The Great Journey -"

"Will proceed on with or without me, Brother Romero. My visions showed me the path, but my role in His Plan is nearly at an end. Envoy?"

"Death by firing squad," Boone said, then cut short the other ghoul's sputter of indignation. "With a witnessed confession, no trial is needed."

The Prophet smiled as if a newborn child had just been handed to it. John shuddered at the thought, and at the visage. "I believe you already heard such a confession. Hush, Brother Romero. I will come along willingly and submit myself to the laws of humans one last time, but for today, my Brotherhood still needs a caring hand and guidance. Would it be too hard to satisfy a dead man's last wish?"

"You are no man," John was about to say, but the words were never vocalized.

The door slid open, the mechanism creaking with rust and age, depositing small copper fragments on the newcomer's shoulder and bald head. An older man well past his fifties, not a ghoul, a _human_ , stepped inside, the hems of a grimy lab coat dancing around his ankles. The newcomer averted his attention from the bulky, armored contraption around his wrist and hid his hand inside one oversized pocket as he bowed at the Prophet a safe distance away.

"Saint Christopher, I'm happy you could join us. The Creator's Envoys have come, and the final step for the Great Journey can be taken. Now more than ever, your proficiency and determination will be put to the test."

"We haven't agreed to shit anything yet," Cassidy pointed out, but behind the shades, Boone's eyes were on the bodyguard's rifle. John mentally wrenched himself away from the abomination's words – _'It's a ghoul. Worse, a puppet of radiations. What the fuck does it think it knows?'_ a part of him insisted – and focused himself on the present situation.

' _Compartmentalize. Later.'_ Slowly and painstakingly, the cogs ground into motion again and rational thought shouldered its way to the fore amidst many protests.

There were a lot of ghouls, from what he had seen when they'd been led through the eastern loading area in the midst of relocating. Armed ghouls who had trouble dealing with the same mutants John and his group terminated with relative ease, but still ghouls armed with top of the line energy weaponry. Nothing the likes of Fritz, though. Probably more of those plasma grenades too, even though they didn't seem to know how to use them or something.

' _And they need us for completing whatever this 'Great Journey' con is. We have the upper hand, somewhat, but we'll lose it once their role for us in this farce ends.'_

The Saint was studying him, a familiar disgust in his jaundiced eyes. Then his eyes roamed over Boone and Cassidy as well, and the bloodless line of his lips curled in distaste.

"God, but are you smoothskins ugly!" He croaked, his voice like a fork dragged down a blackboard even when unfiltered by the intercom. "The Creator sure hasn't taste when choosing his Envoys."

Cassidy stared, visibly taken aback, but John's annoyance at the grating newcomer was stronger than the surprise and the weird insult, so he ignored it – and _him_ \- to address the Prophet himself.

"What guarantee is there that you'll keep your word? That you won't be gone when we come back with your lackey?" Boone nodded in support and the remaining bodyguard tightened his grip on the weapon. John, Cassidy, and Boone mirrored the movement, and a flash of alarm crossed the armed ghoul's face, eyes darting to the Prophet and the door in that order. Nobody paid any attention to the Saint's exclamation.

The Prophet's voice was calm and soothing, as if it couldn't feel the sudden change in the air. It nodded at the scientist. "Saint Christopher is crucial to the good outcome of the Great Journey. Leaving without him, or leaving this place at all now, would be madness and suicide after the struggles and hardships that led our Brotherhood here from all over the country. And as you shall soon learn, the Great Journey cannot commence, no matter our wishes it would be otherwise, without this one, last task."

"We only have your word any of this is true," Boone countered.

"Indeed you do," the Prophet agreed. "I cannot offer you more, for now. My Brothers and Sisters require one last Rite of Replenishment before the Great Journey begins: I would never forgive myself if my actions would cause _more_ of my kin to be denied the Far Beyond and salvation. What difference does it make, to delay my punishment a scant few hours? All I ask you is to take a leap of faith, and on your return, I'll honor our arrangement and surrender myself to your justice."

0 * MiA * 0

' _Faith, right. Can't drink it or shoot it, can we?'_

Cass kept a hand lingering on the new, jingling weight at her belt as they observed the sniper ascend from the crest of the road up a path of natural ledges in the valley's wall, rifle slung across his back.

"What game are you smoothskins playing?"

"Only assuring your lamplight Moses keeps _faith_ with his word," John shot back. "They try to leave, your Prophet's radioactive goop. Come on now, get a move on."

John tilted the rifle's muzzle to the road ahead and the scientist complied, grumbling under his breath. Cass glanced over her shoulder at the REPCONN site behind and below her, at the brown-clad figures milling about the entrance and arranging bodies at the base of the rocket, and took a steadying breath. The fresh air billowing on her face helped, as did the sun, high enough to paint a tattoo on the back of her neck. Every step taking her away from the stench of death and the smoking carcasses helped more.

She still hurt all over and the last and only Med-X syringe she had was empty since the previous morning, but things would get better. If she repeated it enough times, maybe she would start to believe it too.

She rubbed her palm with her fingertips, feeling the broken nails scratch the calloused skin. _'Pull yourself together. You're a Cassidy, not a goddamn floweret."_ Pick up the stuff from point A, haul it all the way to point B, and let a nutjob cult blow themselves up with jet fuel. Nothing easier. She even got all the expenses covered and then some more, because apparently nutjob ghoul cults shat thousands of caps at a moment's notice.

' _It's just another delivery. Just carrying radioactive mumbo jumbo instead of water. Mahpee and Garland would love to hear that.'_ It hit her a moment later that Mahpee, Garland, Xin, and that caravan guy whose name she didn't catch – and why would she, he was only tagging along for a ride - were all dead. Long dead. Burned to ashes and buried in a stretch of no-man's land. But she still kicked, because she sent her people ahead while she went on a goose-chase she _should_ have known would turn up nothing, like all the rest. But she couldn't help it, could she?

"Cass, everything's alright?" John asked up ahead. The scientist with the big 34 stitched on the back of his coat was tapping his foot on the tarmac.

"Spiffing," she said, giving a thumb up and forcing her legs to start forward. She took another deep breath and shook her head. _'Not now. Once this mess's over. Gotta keep on the piece, or I may as well go nuts.'_

The cowboy studied her for a moment and Cass scowled back, a clear signal in the wordless language of human beings he failed to pick up. Thankfully, the balding, creepy old guy came to the rescue. By immolating himself. The analogy made her throat dry up.

"Get a move on, smoothskins," he parroted, "We haven't got all day."

To her surprise, the cowboy didn't shoot him. He winced in annoyance, as much as she did, but let go. She also figured she'd better chat with him about his visceral dislike for the ghouls, rot-brains and not, but only contemplating the thought sapped the will from her, making her gut twist into a couple of tight knots.

' _He looks alright,'_ she said to herself. _'Completely normal._ ' Was she sure of what she'd seen? The light was poor, there was smoke and dirt everywhere and a bunch of Nightkins howling for her blood had just turned into décor. Could she have just imagined it all?

' _There was something under the skin. I saw it.'_ So what? Cass glanced up at John from under the rim of her hat. He was turned away from her, and she was suddenly glad for it. _'How's even still alive?'_ Did it matter? She hadn't lied to him the day before at the motel, despite his mule-headed disbelief. Everyone who walked the Mojave knew at least half a dozen stories of what the Legion did to prisoners. Of course, she'd thought half of them bloated brahmin shit around a little bit of truth until a couple days back.

Until Nipton happened.

Cass swallowed to rid herself of the ghost feeling of a collar snapped around her neck. It made her skin crawl and beads of cold sweat mat her brown and neck despite the rising midday heat. _'Damn it. Damn it all.'_ She wiped her brow clean with the sleeve of her jacket like a thief hiding his pillage, then fisted her hands tightly around the Remington and picked up the pace.

She needed a distraction. No, what she _really_ needed was a bottle of whiskey and an hour to herself, but a distraction was somewhere on the list of the 'next best things'. Contemplating the runner-up option recalled Vulpes Inculta's words and that was enough to make her shudder in discomfort.

"So, what's the deal with you and the Prophet?"

Both John and the scientist turned to her, their expressions of scowling confusion so similar she nearly exploded into laughter.

The older man's jaundiced eyes flashed with suspicion. "And what's that to you, smoothskin?"

"Name's Cass." She unlatched one hand from the shotgun, but it remained pending and unshaken. The scientist actually buried his in his coat's pockets. _'Asshole.'_ "Let's say I'm your practice for the NCR. There's a bunch of them in town." ' _And they ain't going to be too happy about this morning.'_

She didn't say that, but she didn't need to. He swallowed thickly and there was something tremulous in his gaze as he regarded the road ahead.

"A human siding with the rotfaces over his own people ought not to sit well with the people in Novac," John added. Cass glared at him, but he ignored her. "Not after your _innocent children_ rampaged through a refugee camp filled with women and actual children."

The scientist stopped in his tracks and the lines webbing his face deepened as his expression contorted into a snarl. "I'm no human," he seethed and jabbed a finger at the cowboy. "Your _people_ made sure of that long ago. 'Let's put Haversam to work at the leaking reactor' they said! 'He's not a gun nut like we are, he won't mind when his eyes turn yellow and he starts losing his hair'."

Cass blinked, her mouth gaping slightly. "Wait a - " She shook her head and a grin tugged at the corner of her lips. "You think yer a ghoul because you started going bald? You serious?"

"Don't you laugh at me, smoothskin! Look at my head," he pointed at the liver spots on his bald plate. "Look at the radiation blisters!"

She snorted and coughed to conceal it, then bit down on her lips hard enough to bring a tear to her eyes when Haversam's expression turned stormy.

"Come on, you can't be serious. Have you ever looked into a mirror?" she offered. "Scratch that, never seen other people grow old around you when you were a kiddo? 'Cos from here it looks like you took your middle-age crisis way out of proportion."

"Stop!" His voice echoed off the canyon's walls and the concrete of the overpass. Cass cringed at the scientist's outburst, but the man didn't follow through on that. Rather, he crossed his arms over his chest and found his composure. Like flipping a switch.

"Look, smoothskins. Jason says I've got to work with you Envoys for the Journey's sake. Not that I got to like you, and I don't give two twigs about you or what you think. I'm a ghoul, and I'm proud to be one: we don't exploit or enslave each other. We welcome one another with open arms rather than stab our next of kin in the back. So stop wasting my time with your stupid mind tricks and take me to the Isotope. The Great Journey can't wait for you humans to oaf around."

The scientist straightened his coat and made to push past John with two long strides. Shoulders connected and the older man yelped more in surprise than pain, a sound that colored with wordless affront when cowboy grabbed him by said coat with his left and shook him like a line of tin cans.

"You think it's that easy? That calling yourself a rotface means you've got diplomatic immunity? That I'm going to hand enough plasma fuel to make a goddamned thermobaric device over to you fucking mutants?"

John stressed every question with a shake and even from a couple of meters away Cass thought she could hear the older man's teeth rattle. The third time, his feet were hauled clean off the ground and the scientist started kicking in a panic, holding on the cowboy's arm for dear life.

"John, you're going to scare the life out of him! He's just a fool."

"All the more reason to put a stop to this madness." He dropped Haversam to the ground, where he landed on his butt with a grunt. "Would you give him a bouquet of mini-nukes to throw around? Because enough of that Isotope 229, an igniter and a container and they could turn any town like Novac or Goodsprings into a radioactive firebomb. And it would be on _us_!"

A shiver run down Cass' back and her eyes fell on John's arm. "How do you even know that?" ' _Could he really be one of them? The arm, the racism, that fancy energy gun... No, it'd be too obvious. Not even the BoS is that arrogant.'_

She saw John startle at the question, his glare faltering into doubt. His lips parted to answer her but no words came and his face crumpled.

"I don't remember the _how_ ," he said after a long, poignant moment. "I only do." Knuckles popped in the ensuing silence and Cass found herself at a loss for words, caught between suspicion and a stab of guilt.

She glanced at Haversam picking himself up from the tarmac and dusting himself off. The guy looked positively murderous. A headache was rushing to the front of her head like a rolling boulder.

"Is what John said true?" Cliff Briscoe had a whole underground cellar filled with the stuff. Green, gooey and ominous, that's how she remembered it. That, and the Geiger count ticking the one time the storekeeper tried to off some of it onto her caravan.

Haversam scowled. At her, at John, at the air itself. "If you wish to know, yes. Yes, it is. But that's something humans would do. And there's enough degraded Isotope in the secondary launch pad to build that same device you fear, many of them. We haven't in the weeks we've been there. Because we're Ghouls." The scowl eased to give way to a sneer. "We're better, and you're inconsequential to us. Now, deal with it and be a good Envoy."

' _I_ _should have kept my mouth shut.'_

John cast his gaze about, an action Cass mirrored. The overpass loomed closely behind, but the road was theirs. If one didn't account for the corpses, of course.

There was a solid _thud_ , the crack of bone and Haversam hit the ground, out like a light. Cass wanted to think it surprised her, but the breath of relief she let out contradicted that. For the first time since she entered the REPCONN site, she eased her grip on the Remington.

"You broke his jaw," she said.

"I should break his neck. But he might have more information." He bit through gritted teeth. The next words seemed to take him some effort. "And he's still human, whatever he says. Mentally unstable, but still human. Besides, his Pip-Boy might come in handy."

"Hardly. Thing's glued to his arm or something if it's the same as in California. Might have better luck sawing off his arm."

John kneeled and bound the scientist's hands and feet together with the leather strap of the M16A1 in the way of the old cowboys, then slung the unconscious body over his shoulder. The bald head flopped against his back. He huffed under the weight, but Cass could see it is plain as day that he was actually considering the option.

"Forget I said anything," she hurried to say. Her hand found the heavy satchel at her belt for reassurance. "I feel kinda bad taking all this money without completing the delivery."

"How much did they try to bribe us with anyway?"

Cass's humorous eyebrow sailed high. "You didn't even bother to listen?"

John grunted dismissively, but he didn't bite and started walking towards Novac instead. A couple of minutes of silence and watching over her shoulder for garbed ghouls with a poisoned tooth later, Cass felt relatively safe enough – _relatively_ being the key word – to keep talking.

"Three thousand, take or give a few."

Cass stared at John, expecting surprise from him. Maybe a low whistle of appreciation. Yet only of the former flickered on his face before he repressed it fiercely and he glared back at her. "Keep it. I already told you I don't want any."

' _Asshole carrying another asshole.'_ This time, she didn't argue. She'd wasted enough breath on the topic as it was. "Suit yourself. More booze me. But humor me: any specific reason why this time'round?"

John grunted. A twinkling sheen of sweat seeped into the creases of his brow, but she didn't know if that was annoyance or the effort. The nutjob didn't look _too_ heavy.

"It's _their_ money. Dirty money they made God knows how. It's foul."

A clear belch of laughter rolled off against the canyon walls. "You're ridiculous. Caps are caps. It's not like they sold jet to children or shit like that."

The grinding of John's teeth could have awakened the dead. The bound Haversam certainly stirred. "Would you accept money from the people who killed your caravan?"

A snake of glacial frost coiled in Cass' stomach around an apple with a smoldering core. _'Chances are I already have. Got it stolen already too, 'cause I'm just that good.'_

She didn't voice that though. She spat and the fat glob of phlegm splattered some distance ahead.

"Fuck you, cowboy. It's not the fucking same thing." She kicked a rock, and it bounced after the spit. "What's your beef with them anyway? You never met one before."

He dared to look apologetic for a split moment and Cass almost introduced him to her fist, fuck the consequences and fuck _him_. Then he shrugged and winced as the unconscious scientist shifted on his shoulder, but he broke the eye-lock first, burning a hole somewhere in the distance.

"They _exist_ , and it's wrong." he ground out. "I can't stand it. Taking their money, it would feel just like that. Just like taking it from _Benny_."

Cass balked at the sheer self-centered idiocy of his words. _'He can't have said it. He can't. Who the hell does he think he is?'_

"What the fuck do you even know how it feels?" She jabbed a finger in his face, and the impression of a déjà vu was strong enough it was almost overbearing. "I told you once already, cowboy: if you think you can compare, you're full of shit, and those bullets fucked up more than your memories."

' _Arrogant, selfish prick!'_

"Don't you dare speak of _her_ ," he hissed back. "This is not about her."

The snake uncurled, and the heat seeped through. It washed away the weariness, leaving behind a promise of further exhaustion, but Cass was deaf to it and blind to the fear and doubt that checkmated her thoughts before.

"Or what? You'll punch my lights out like you did his? Snap my neck? Go ahead." She didn't shout or screech like in those flicks that were all the rage in the misogynist NCR and taught women to be dull, boring stereotypes. She didn't need to. "Face the fucking reality, cowboy. She went in flying by the seat of her pants and half-assed it royally. She fucked up, and paid the toll. Story of the fucking wasteland."

John lengthened his stride, but he was burdened down, and Cass chased him mercilessly. She couldn't see his face, but his hands were curled into shaking fists and his body was so tense he had to be walking on by sheer stubbornness.

So it was that she almost smacked face first into his chest when he halted and turned around, an indescribable expression on his face. "You're a hypocrite, Rose of Sharon Cassidy. You don't know who she was, how she helped me. _You_ don't know shit, despite your full set of memories. This isn't even about her, is it?" He took a step forward. "This is about you. About how you half-assed it royally, _chasing ghosts_."

Her breath hitched, but confusion only lasted briefly. The day they found Nipton in flames was blurry, a mix of shifting portraits framed in dripping red, after-images streaking through different snapshots and spikes of fear. His words prompted some clarity from that vivid mess and the sense of déjà vu took shape, voice, and sound.

She tried to speak. Once, twice, but shame and anger had her throat in a squeezing vice.

"Yet you're still here," he pressed on and his words would be lashes, if not for the shaky, underlying note. "The fucking wasteland didn't take its toll on you. Not with your caravan. Not in Nipton. You said you owe me your life, that I didn't have to risk my neck with the Legionaries? Newsflash: it's because of _her_ that I've been shielding _your_ ass…"

The vehemence in those last words trickled away and Cass saw his face slacken. Then cartilage crunched under her knuckles, John's head whipped back and the dead weight carried him bottom first on the tarmac. Cass winced from the impact traveling up her arm and massaged her knuckles. She glared down at John, whose hand was cupping his nose: rivulets of blood flecked between his digits, and she could feel the wet quality as she rubbed her hand.

"If your only reason for tagging along is siphoning your guilt on me, then we're through," she ground out. "I'm me, not your dead girlfriend. We clear?"

He said nothing at first: righting his nose took precedence, a sharp twist that made Cass almost feel bad about herself. Almost.

A whole minute passed, then another. The scientist stirred, but if he had come to the world of the waking, he continued to pretend otherwise. Her knuckles throbbed in rhythm with her back and slowly, the whole morning of shooting and jumping about finally made itself heard across her belly and back.

Finally, when she was about to flip him the bird and walk away, he nodded and moved to stand, a disturbed look on his face.

"Say it."

He scowled. "Clear. Crystal."

"Good." And with that, she helped him pick up the scientist. Said man protested, but it was a muffled and pained effort, and he re-joined the quiet ones in a matter of seconds. She slipped one arm around her shoulder, the cowboy took the other and they hauled him on his feet.

Cass glanced at John over Haversam's bald plate: the lower half of his face was streaked crimson, and a large bruise was swiftly expanding across his nose. A voice in her head, the one listening to the jingle of the caps at her belt, urged her to ditch him and buy a ride on an NCR truck heading north. It would be practical, if unfair and selfish. It would take her to the site in a manner of hours. Less maybe.

' _And leave behind someone who needs the ride more. One of the children, or a doctor.'_

And even if she shaved half a day from the trip, what would she do with the rest of the money? Drinking herself to sleep sounded like a wonderful idea, and she doubted Briscoe had enough booze left anyway. Maybe a bottle of the good stuff tucked away, if she was lucky. The NCR or the Followers would need the rest for the wounded.

' _Fuck. I'll be there tomorrow anyway. Maybe another couple of days. Tops.'_

She cursed herself all the way to Novac.

0 * MiA * 0

John had expected the burning heaps belching the smoke that blackened the clear sky. The stench of cooking meat reached them even before they descended the last stretch; the blood clogging his broken nose turned out to be a blessing in disguise there, though his face throbbed in protest at the thought.

What he _didn't_ expect was the welcoming party. He drew a breath so sudden, some of the clotted bloodshot from his nostrils into his gullet, threatening to choke down on it.

An entrenched checkpoint controlled the REPCONN's road, where only bushes and dirt had been in the morning. An NCR officer in his forties, a gray beret primly on his head and a laser pistol at his hip, rose to greet them. From behind a waist-high barricade, he ran his eyes sharply up and down the both of them.

"John Doe and Rose of Sharon Cassidy?" he asked rhetorically.

John coughed an assent. Cassidy whispered hers, staring ahead. If in awe or dread, he couldn't really tell.

He was too busy goggling at the two colossi in Power Armour flanking the officer.

"Sergeant Boone fell in action?"

"He's keeping an eye on the Brotherhood," John replied absently. To his own ears, he sounded like he had the worst cold since the Denver outbreak.

The miniguns looked almost dainty in the hands of the behemoths. So it was with some alarm that he watched the almost seven feet tall towers of poly-laminate composite plating shift with a low whirr of servos in his direction, like giants awakening from an age-long slumber. Metal feet rose and fell and the ground trembled with each step.

The T-51 suits - the pauldrons and rounder lines were quite telling - were painted black-and-grey, not the Brotherhood grey-and-blue he expected, somehow. Twin golden two-headed bears roared on the chest-pieces and helmets. Helmets that rounded down on him as if he admitted to carrying the Plague.

Well forged or not, the gladium would at best stencil fancy patterns into the silver ablative coating. _'There're gaps at the chin, armpit, hip, and knee though. Plus the emergency ejection trigger at the back of the neck and the breathing tubes.'_

Cassidy almost dropped Haversam in her hurry to defuse the situation.

"Bright's Brotherhood. It's how they call themselves. The ghouls. Not the Brotherhood of Steel." She took a steadying breath. "There's no BoS metalheads at REPCONN, officer. My _friend_ here," she stressed the word with a pointed glare. "just came out from a bad case of amnesia."

The officer studied them for a few, ticking moments, then he ordered the Power-Armored duo down with two raised fingers. "We'll see. Prisoner?"

It took John a moment to find his footing again. "Prisoner. Christopher Haversam. A scientist or technician of some sort. He believes he's a ghoul: has been helping the Brotherhood… the rotfaces' cult, bringing a space rocket back to working order."

A snort rolled out from one of the speakers. The officer barely knitted his brows, then brought up his wrist. Another Pip-Boy decorated it. It beeped cheerfully under his fingertips' prodding and a minute of awkward standing around later, the officer nodded to himself.

"Very well. Jenkins, Halmabad, relieve the civilians. Mr. Doe, Mrs. Cassidy: if you would, Major Granite would like to speak with you. Sergeant Delgado, you're in command until I return."

' _Another debriefing. I might as well enroll and get full benefits.'_

So it was that his shoulders were lightened of the unwelcome weight of Saint Haversam, who was exchanged like a sack of banana yucca to two NCR troopers John hadn't even noticed in his tunnel-vision focus on the Power Armoured soldiers. Unlike the riff-raff under Lt. Monroe's command, these were kitted in the standard NCR impractical outfit, but proper clothes' size and a certain confidence in their movements made them look more the part of soldiers, rather than levies.

They trudged behind the nameless officer through the outskirts of Novac. A team of troopers, stripped of most of their armor, dug thigh-deep into the hard-packed Mojave soil, attacking the ground with short camp shovels. Two dozen graves gaped empty already, but the soldiers proceeded at their work with the stolid continuity of those who have more ahead, not rushing to complete the last stretch.

Heads turned and tired eyes peered from under drenched brows as they passed. Murmurs were exchanged too, half-conveyed in that silent language that becomes second-nature on the frontline, but John caught none of what was being said. Though it wasn't hard to guess the general lines.

He pushed them out of his mind as the tent city surrounded the little procession on both sides. Soldiers and civilians alike flickered in and out the empty shells of canvas, carrying bodies and supplies to waiting carts. Caravaners tended to their beasts, the brahmins' nostrils flaring at the stench of blood congealing around their hooves. Thankfully, the wind was blowing the pyre's aromas northwards: the few whiffs John caught reminded him of the worst Primm had to offer.

' _Poor slobs tending to the fire.'_ Unless there were more Power Armored soldiers about using the flamethrowers. The HEPA filters of their helmets would make walking into the thick of it like taking lungsful of clean, aseptic air.

They passed Manny Vargas and another refugee hauling a man on the corpse wagon. The sniper was unarmed, the bandages around his arm and shoulder dotted with reds and blacks, but John could feel his gaze boring into the back of his head as they left him behind.

He turned to Cassidy, only to catch her flicking her gaze away to stare at the top of the officer's head.

"What?"

"Hmm?"

"Something on your mind?"

She glanced at him sideways, then pointedly back at the officer. Her face was taking a greenish, sickly hue. "It's not every other day the Guard of Iron takes the field, that's it."

John frowned, but Cassidy eyes went back to the officer's back once more, settled there for a long moment, then returned to John. Was she shaking her head?

' _Grey beret is awfully close.'_ John wanted to ask what she couldn't or wouldn't talk about in the man's presence, but that was obviously the last thing he should do. So he decided to bite. It wasn't like he wasn't curious about the Power Armored Bears.

"Your Iron General again? Name's kind of gives it away."

Someone behind him snorted. The officer's head rotated in his direction too, but John focused on Cassidy. She rolled her eyes very theatrically.

"Spoilsports. Still, last I heard there were only a bunch of them in the Mojave, up at McCarran. Makes sense though, with the Legion upping this goddamned war once more. Hardest campaigns in the last ten years, they were in the heat of it. " She started counting with her fingers. "The Steel Scourge back in '73, after the Brotherhood blew the Congress to smithereens. That's where they got their name, and the Power Armor: taking it from the bodies of their Paladins and Knights. Changed the paint job though." Another finger uncurled. "The year before that, Navarro. Some just fold the two events together, since one lead to the other and all, but –"

"You've lost me there." John rose a halting hand. _'What's her fangirlism with this General guy?'_ "I thought the Battle of Navarro was back in 2251."

Cassidy arched an eyebrow. "You… _know_ about that one?"

"… It was in Doc Mitchell's crash course about the 'Meaningful Events of the Last Forty Years' when he tried to jog my memory."

"Miss Cassidy is referring to the Second Battle of Navarro in 2272." The officer had slowed his pace just enough that he could walk only a couple of steps ahead of them. "You were told about the First, when we took the base from the Enclave. Nine years ago, General Navache held it against the Brotherhood of Steel."

"Bloody business," Cassidy said. "You were there?"

The officer's face twisted into a grimace. "I was wounded when the Brotherhood breached the second perimeter, but I had the honor of fighting beside the General and the Major during the final sortie." His chest puffed a bit with pride under the body armor. "We licked those fanatics good. Everyone who wears a suit of Power Armour earned it in the field."

John recalled some of the talks he'd heard at the mess hall the day before. _'Worth a shot.'_ "Good to finally have some professional soldiers to contain this mess," he said, trying to appear inconspicuous as he observed the officer.

The officer nodded, then let out a low chuckle. "General Olivier's strategies were very effective against the Brotherhood."

' _But what's good against one enemy can spell defeat against another.'_

Closer to the motel, tents were being unpegged and shuffled into a new arrangement, lining the length of the motel's back wall. Even more soldiers, dozens of them, were hard at work there, but the shoveling didn't produce more graves. A long ditch was under excavation on either side of the south road, all around the Dino's concrete base and further on, bending with the fence link into a half-moon surrounding the motel area south and west. Dirt and stones were slowly piling up behind the ditch into a continuous mound that already reached John's knee but promised to rise far, far higher.

They passed by another few soldiers in Power Armour as they hefted the rusted out vestiges of old world cars, wedged barrels filled with scrap into the shaping barricade or stood about, looking threatening with their heavy weaponry. John's count was up to nine of the mechanized cavalry and sixty-seven standard troopers by the time they approached the entrance to the courtyard and the predominance of military personnel gave way to the host of refugees he remembered.

Even from the outside peeking in, it was clear the courtyard had been taken over by the Followers of the Apocalypse, few as they were: spindly silhouettes in dirty white coats moved up and down the stairs of the motel or among the scores of shocked, terrified civilians huddled in pockets, but there were so many they might as well mingle. Some shared food, or offered a kind word; one walked out of a room on the ground floor, discarded gloves drenched in blood into a trash bin and rubbed his eyes tiredly before moving on.

' _There no children among them.'_

"When did the trucks leave?"

"Mid-morning, shortly after we arrived," the officer replied. He stood in front of the lobby door, restored on its hinges. "The kids will be taken care of at Aerotech Park, you don't have to worry."

John glanced about. _'Damn, they work fast.'_ "The Major is waiting inside?"

"First, your weapons." He gestured to another soldier standing nearby, and at the crate at the woman's feet.

"Last time we were asked to leave our guns outside this lobby, I almost got shot," John said. "By NCR soldiers."

"It was reported that things grew hectic." The officer gave him a friendly smile. "It happens, with too many people around. Only the Major is waiting inside, and Corporal Manny Vargas is working well beyond kicking reach."

' _So much for choices.'_ Dropping the service rifle he had been carrying by the handle was actually a relief though. He was struggling with the gun belt when Cassidy stumbled into him, grabbing at his shoulder to right herself. John steadied her out of reflex and failed to suppress a shiver when her breath tickled his ear.

" _Intelligence guys._ "

Ice seeped into his belly. _'Oh, fuck me.'_

0 * MiA * 0

A cybernetic eye zeroed on him the moment he crossed the threshold.

"The civilian scouts. Come in, have a seat."

A thin red dot replaced a normal pupil square in the center of a glowing yellow sclera. Scar tissue crisscrossed the upper left half of the man's face all around it and where damage didn't disfigure him, deeply etched lines carved bronze skin dried by the years. His was a strong face into a crab-like carapace of ceramic plates that covered his shoulders and ended further up in a protective, topless dome around the man's bare head.

John complied and forced himself to look away and take in the rest of the lobby as Cassidy filed in behind him. Crawford's body had been removed, but the couch and the broken tiles around it were still splattered generously. He spotted the revealing diary of Armand Crawford too, at the top of a neat pile at the edge of the counter.

Beside it was an Enclave helmet.

John narrowed his eyes at the horned bug shape, at the yellow lenses darkened while switched off. Pressure started building against his temples from inside, sending tendrils of pain across his skull and promising more once the proper headache rolled in.

He looked back at the elephant in the room, searching the left shoulder pauldron of the X-01 suit painted in NCR patterns. A scorch mark widened where the E-and-Stars should be, and on it a capable hand had etched a two-headed bear. _'Damage like that could be easily fixed.'_

The elephant in the room caught him peeking. Cracked lips settle into a comfortable thin line, locking an imperious jaw. "Not a line in the sand in my case, Mr. Doe."

Cassidy was looking at him, confused. John had no answers to give her. _'Not much else to do but get this done with.'_

"Your officer said you wanted to debrief us. Sir," he added as an afterthought.

The thin line broke. "I'm sure my son wasn't that blunt. But yes, that's the gist of it. I'm Major Ian Granite." Normal and cybernetic eye switched to Cassidy, catching her as she started to speak.

She hesitated only a moment under the mismatched gaze. "A pleasure. Gonna give us grief 'cause the NCR standard policy frowns on hired help?"

"Lieutenant Monroe only gave you what supplies he could spare to make your task doable. By his words, you volunteered for the job." The cybernetic eye rested on the hefty satchel at her hip. "And remuneration, that doesn't seem to be an issue. One might think the _ghouls_ bribed you." He almost spat the word.

Cassidy rolled her eyes. "I call this 'reward for blowing Nightkins to goo', thank you. We brought you their gimmick-Saint in straps too."

The aged visage of Major Granite sobered up. "Nightkins in the Mojave? Tell me everything."

John took over the narration, detailing what happened and voicing his distrust for near every word the rotfaces uttered in his presence. Cassidy provided more objective details and details that slipped from John's mind, like the Good Man the Nightkin leader cursed time and again. When he got to the point of the Prophet's requested _act of faith_ , and what exactly it entailed, the Major started fiddling with the Pip-Boy encased in his armored forearm.

"So you pretended to go along with the deal, then knocked out Haversam when he sniffed your ploy?"

"Mostly because he kept spewing rhetorics on how being a ghoul trumped being smoothskin," Cassidy answered for him. John nodded: it wasn't a lie.

"Remnants of the Master's army and a Glowing One from the East leading a cult shooting for the Moon. Reminds me of the Hubologist back in Frisco," he muttered to himself. "You said they have a rocket ready to take off?"

"So they insisted," John said. "Only missing the fuel, but the only rocket I saw is the monument in the central square."

The Major nodded, then turned back to his Pip-Boy. A scratching hiss echoed into the lobby and from a port in the armor's forearm, a sheet of yellowed paper slid out. The Major grabbed it and waved it, then placed it between them on the counteracting as his desk.

"Remember this structure?" A metal finger tapped the freshly printed bird's eye view. It took John a moment to recognize the REPCONN main building with its two twin wings and the rocket, but the Major wasn't pointing at that. His digit rested on a round structure labeled as 'Testing Launch Pad' surmounting the cliffs on the left of the valley.

"Only a lot of rubble," Cassidy voiced his thoughts.

The Major hummed, then grimaced. "The rocket monument it is then. It figures Mr. House would use a live rocket for self-fellatio. Never mind." He turned to John, expression darkening. "Your concern was spot: Isotope 229 is too dangerous to trust into clearly incapable hands. Criminals', no less. The Prophet, this Jason Bright: he admitted to everything?"

"Took the blame for the whole debacle on himself," John confirmed. "Sounds too easy a way out."

"Agreed. With the Legion on the warpath, leaving potential threats equipped with energy weapons behind our frontline is a no go." Some more tapping on the Pip-Boy later, Granite found Cassidy's eye. "It seems trouble has a way around the members of your family."

Under the rattan hat, Cassidy frowned in confusion. "My business is my own."

The Major actually chuckled. "Your father used to say the same thing."

Cassidy recoiled on her seat in surprise. "You know my father?"

"I knew him briefly, a lifetime ago. A proud man not used to discipline, but a loyal friend. Mean left too."

"Major Granite." Cassidy was almost pleading. There was a conflicted urgency in her words that had her hanging on the edge of her chair. "If you know anything about my father, please: I _need_ to know."

"I'm sorry, it's classified information. The last I heard of him, however, he'd settled down, built a home for himself and married. Your mother, I assume."

Cassidy deflated, then made to speak again, but the Major cut her off. "I would like to talk more, but that cult needs to be dealt and done with. At the earliest. I think your room wasn't taken over by the Followers, if you wish to rest."

John recognized a dismissal when he heard one. Cassidy did too, but it took longer for her to finally sigh in defeat and stand from the chair.

She preceded him to the door and stalked out. John picked up his weapons from the crate, but opted to leave the rifle with the guard. It wasn't his, and Boone had emptied even the spare clip to the last into the muties.

"I need a drink," Cassidy said.

"I don't think there's any alcohol left in the whole of Novac." He noticed the same officer who escorted them disappear into the lobby. Looking about, of Haversam or his minders, there was no trace. "We need to talk," he added in a whisper.

"Not here. With the spy-boys about, even the walls have ears."

"Fine. What was that in there, about your father?"

Cassidy stiffened and turned away. "Goddamnit. Not _now_ , cowboy!"

He watched her stalk past the fence gate and navigate halfway through the tangle of people to the gift shop's door before he made up his mind. Cassidy had left the door open, but as the Major said, no guests had taken advantage of it. Only a little sand that had blown through the opening and dispersed on the floor.

John closed the world outside, but muffling the ambient noise only made his building headache throb more distinctly. He gingerly rubbed at his scar, trying to focus on any single point of the past few hours, but was unable to stop on one: Cassidy, the former-Enclave Major, Power Armoured Bears, the cursed rotface who thought he knew it all about him only because he led a little suicide cult. All rushed in and out, prodding and prodded, chasing and chased in the boiling mindscape.

His head spun and the room blurred. He flopped on the bed with a grimace, barely catching himself: his hands and then his face sunk into the soft coverlet. Hours of fighting and sleep deprivation sneaked up on him, dragging him further under until his eyelids fell under the weight and John slipped into a tormented sleep.

0 * MiA * 0

She'd drunk her way through a couple of bottles already and the sun hung tantalizingly low on the horizon when the Prophet, beaten and battered, met the firing squad.

The refugees tossed stones and bricks, tin cans and broken bottles from behind cordon of soldiers. Food was too precious a commodity to waste, even on the perceived root of all evil.

Five gunshots echoed as one. She was too far and only saw the body topple. So she tossed the empty bottle aside, and her hand found the next without mistake.

The least she could do was to drink one in his name. Health was not something that mattered any longer, right? Besides, he'd paid for it.

' _Fair's fair.'_

The asshole was passed out on the bed when she'd returned from Briscoe's, and Cass didn't much care for spending another night on the couch. Or another afternoon, anyway. So she had grabbed a bottle or three, found herself a spot downwind, and commenced her private celebration. The sun had just begun its descent, by that time.

The ground had trembled when the Guard of Iron marched down the REPCONN road, then again a couple of hours later when they reappeared, bound and disarmed ghouls in tow like cattle. A riot brewed and threatened to spill as it hadn't when the asshole and she dragged the nutcase in, but she supposed skin made all the difference in that case. Or lack thereof.

The sniper had been there too, somewhere. More importantly, he'd been right: no trial, fake or otherwise, was mounted. The Prophet was confined to a shack at the edge of town, his followers into a couple of spare tents. Only the former had re-emerged, and only to eat a bullet or five.

She huffed and spat the cork in an arch far over the railing. "To th' Pprrophet. To ffaith," she slurred, raising the bottle. The whiskey was warm, a caress to her already wetted throat, and the burning in her stomach only increased.

' _That's no way to drink,'_ he conscience scolded her _'Pace it out. You'll get shitfaced.'_ At some point, it had taken up her father's voice. What she remembered of it, anyway.

"Shurrup."

She propped herself up from the railing and stumbled back into the motel room. Watching the courtyard, empty but for those too wounded to move but who didn't have the caps, age or connections to hitch a ride on the trucks, was making her think bad thoughts. In her father's voice, no less.

' _I've done my good deed o' the day. Deeds. I'm entitled to some drinkin'.'_

At some point during the afternoon, the asshole must have woken up, because the room glowed with his absence. She'd bet what caps she had left that he was among the throng howling for the Prophet's blood or something, but running a quick count… She didn't know how much she'd spent on or for him already between Novac and the Outpost, once she subtracted her debt and added…

"Ye kkknnow wha'? Fffuck matth." The empty room didn't disagree. It just spun, and Cass went with it until she fell on something not-that-soft with a huff. She brought the bottle to her lips and drunk greedily once, twice more. Her chin was wet with wasted whiskey, but much more had found its way down her throat, so that was no hassle.

' _Can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs.'_ She was pretty sure the saying wasn't all that fitting, but the couch wasn't all that uncomfortable either. She stared at the ceiling, her fingers curled around the bottle; an half-forgotten lullaby started playing in the background.

 _A skull with red skin knocked at her door, but when it swung open it was her father standing in a bonfire of rotting ghouls. He was tall and muscular and blue and when he talked, a single word was hurled about. "Antler. Antler ANTLER!"_

 _Then he broke his bindings and walked through the flames, burning coyotes on either side of him and a good smile splitting his face. Under his shades, his eyes glinted, twin red dots bathing in yellow._

" _Another story, strawberry? Fine, fine." A hearty laugh. "Have I ever told you about that time when the Chosen One…"_

0 = MiA = 0

 _AN: So, yeah. The NCR has working suits of Power Armour. One of Fallout 2 finales had a pro-active NCR welcoming some Enclave defectors into their fold after the Rig went Boom. Reasonably, they'd be called in to teach the troops how to use the Power Armors. The Word of God (Chris Avellone) says Granite and his EC squad went north and had many adventures, but here a very pro-military, shrewd Chosen One made them another offer. The Remnants, sadly, don't account in there: Navarro was years later, and they_ did _fight against the NCR. Granite executed Frank Horrigan._

 _It may seem I'm powering up and reorganizing the NCR military here. I am: having the Chosen One as an active participant of said military for almost 40 years, the last few of which spent as a General, did and will change a lot of things. The Office of Intelligence is one; the Guard of Iron, another. And I've yet to get to the ludicrous parts. Bottom line is: I'm not an NCR fanboy._

 _They'll need all of that and more to even have a chance to weather what is coming._

 _The 'fire-extinguishing-balls' are the first viable alternative I found to fire-extinguishers, since those have an expiration date and maintenance issues that don't really agree with, you know, the apocalypse. Monoammonium-phosphate shouldn't have the same issues, and it's far more easy to carry around. Search for 'Fire extinguishing balls' on Google, I just discovered it myself._

 _For now, I'll keep to a monthly update schedule for MiA, with some random The Thin Line updates when the inspiration strikes. This time, Hogarth's story has only updated once since the last chapter of MiA, but stuff happened. Like 27h shifts at voluntary work (gotta love the Italian Emergency Health Service) and relatives having very close calls._


	11. Interlude 2: Hit the Road Jack

**Interlude #2: Hit the Road Jack.**

 _AN: Apologies for the delay, I only have a short one for you this time. Another Interlude. A bit talky, and more worldbuilding and foreshadowing. At least we finally leave Novac behind._

 _My sincerest thanks to_ _ **Aegon Blacksteel, partevoli**_ _and_ _ **Pro Assassin**_ _for their reviews; to_ _ **DocMarten2525**_ _as well, whose stories you should go read if you love Fallout 4 and you're looking for writing of such quality, I've rarely read on this website in years. And finally, to_ _ **WastelandScribe**_ _, a faithful reviewer, associate writer and the talented artist behind the covers for both the Wasteland Legend stories._

 _Also, the prequel – companion fic to Missing in Action,_ _ **The Thin Line**_ _, has updated again. If you appreciate John's adventure, go and try to give Hogarth's some love as well._

0 = MiA = 0

Night came, but the moon didn't. Burning barrels of garbage cast the shadows of gathered sentries in long stripes that played on the building's walls or merged with the encroaching darkness. At times, the ground shook, and armored suits gleamed orange and red in passing.

Echoes of gunfire rolled across the wastes like clockwork: close, then far off, then just a few steps beyond where the eyes could see. Dropping eyelids snapped open and stared at grey shadows shifting on the canvas walls; ears stretched to catch muffled steps on the other side of closed doors and fluttering entrances. There was little yet precious comfort in the heat and presence of dear ones, but only despairing solitude for those plagued by raw loss.

Shut-eye was a privilege for the drunk, the numb or the dead. John left that challenge to Cassidy. He waited the night out on the barricades, rubbing elbows with troopers who shared stories and stomped feet to ward off the cold. Tense like guitar strings, jittering nerves played a song of their own.

His nose regenerated too soon, the clogging gone: with renewed health came the smoke and the stench of metal and cooked meat hanging off the town like a epitaph. The musty stale of his new kevlar vest was a begrudging rock in the fuliginous storm blowing from the pyre once the wind changed after midnight. Whispers of an imminent attack blossomed within the smoke and were crushed by the hour, then the minute, by grey-capped, hard-voiced officers.

Enforced discipline did little to assuage the slithering fears however. Every lap of wind was the breath of the Legion on the back of their necks; every wandering tracer round lighting the dark above Nelson and Forlon Hope in the distance, an object of elation, prayer, dread or all of the above together. John's own hair stood at attention in eager anticipation.

And yet, the Bull didn't come. Minutes bled away into hours, and the curtain covering the Mojave parted. When dawn broke, it delivered a sense of relief mixed to disappointment with the crisp morning breeze. Adrenaline seeped out in an almost tangible flow, thick and greasy and wasted.

Novac still stood, Cretaceous monstrosity and all, its fields pauper of still, red corpses. The shift came, orders rung out, soldiers assembled. Patrols ranged out East, to Forlorn Hope, and more numerous, South. As the synchronous stomping of metal feet faded in the distance, John found his own legs carrying him over the perimeter rather than the grub hall or a bed, his path retracing a path flattened by hundreds of feet the previous day.

The fraying plaster of the execution wall was flecked with a dark orange, not the near black red of congealed human blood. He traced with a gloved finger the holes where the bullets punched through the festooned carcass, then scrubbed it clean of the clinging remains, grimacing.

In the end, the Prophet had smiled, all crooked teeth and swollen gums, but _serene_. At his executioners. At the hateful crowd. And, one among dozens, at _him._

' _You bled like the rest of them. They dragged your body in the dirt, spat upon. You burned.'_ Yet the ghoul's words and what they implied in their self-entitled righteousness echoed stubbornly, stronger with every counter, with every round of denial, a mallet falling like a pendulum losing momentum.

A pair of boots stopped crunching the dirt a deliberate dozen steps away, snatching him back to the brisk Mojave morning. "Gloating this early already?"

John sighed, the heavy vest loose enough on his frame not to chafe. He didn't know why he'd bothered to visit in the first place. The smell was probably better than at the pyre.

"Aren't you?" he said.

A pause. The sloshing of liquid. "You can't go around half-naked after every scrap. More so if you play meat shield all the time. Try to make it last you 'till Vegas."

"You used their money."

"Nope. _My_ money, cowboy. Neither you or Boone wanted any of it. Rectitude, blockheadedness: knock yourself out. Way I see it, it's mine now."

The next retort was on the tip of his tongue, but there it remained. She would follow along until either one of them stormed away or she hit him, again. It was too early in the morning - or too late, semantics - for that.

He stopped his contemplation and turned to face her. She'd bought a change of clothes to go with her suede at the Dino shop, a shirt and jeans, and a travel backpack rested against her leg.

"How much have you got left anyway?" The fat, jingling satchel of the day before at her hip had shrivelled to a fist-sized pouch of wrinkled brahmin leather.

She quirked an eyebrow, and he noticed how bloodshot and ringed her eyes were underneath. "Five hundred and somethin'. Just enough for the trip and a ride back to California when this mess's over. Maybe a couple of extras on the road, if you don't eat like a nightstalker."

 _'She's leaving?'_

He bit the inside of his cheek hard, holding her gaze. Moments later, his words were cautious, probing. _"_ From more than three-thousand?"

She shrugged. He smelled an evasion. "Prices skyrocket with the military goin' around requisitioning. Twice so if they do more than one round. Right now, Briscoe's shop's good for the shadow and not much more: he delivered you the stuff as a way to say thank you. I think he'll take up running the motel on the side once the NCR vacates."

"Better him than slavers." He nodded at the backpack. "Are you one-hundred percent sure he didn't rip you off though? That seems awfully light." She rolled her eyes.

"Good for your shoulders then. Not much booze left either," she added, burping into her fist. John wondered how many bottles he'd find on the moquette if he bothered hiking up to the motel. The Cheshire grin spread behind her hand, thin and mocking. "I wouldn't mind another round of your drunken flailin'. Makes for good entertainment, if pricey."

"I could hit your boots rather than a close miss this time," he grumbled back.

"Then maybe Jackson'll lend ya the mop-stick again, if you ask him nicely."

0 * MiA * 0

Even in the orange hues of dawn, Highway 95 was just another slab of broken tarmac overgrown with dry bushes and strewn with dislodged concrete roadblocks; a variety of odd, rusted-out vehicles, shoved by the wayside to allow for traffic, completed the picture in a sprinkle of Mojave home-flavour. It resembled a dried up snake, one long body slithering through the cracks and hills of this stretch of the Mojave.

Despite the early hour, it wasn't empty of travelers either. Garbed in a mixed ensemble of NCR drab browns-and-greens, armed to the teeth, Craig Boone waited where Novac's road met the Highway; even as he leaned against a roadblock, his straight posture and turning head belied alertness.

"'Morning," John greeted. Boone nodded back, then hefted a rangy, patched satchel on one shoulder and adjusted the strap of the bandoleer crossing his chest.

John exchanged a look with Cassidy. After a few moments of just standing there, she cleared her throat and turned to the sniper.

"You're moving North too?"

"McCarran, yes," he said. "Back to my unit."

And like that, with considerable less alcohol and personal humiliation than last time, two became three.

0 * MiA * 0

Being on the move again felt good, there was no two ways about it. More than that: it felt _right_ , even more than putting a mutant into the ground. With every step that the air cleared of the stench and the Dino's scaly back became a little more vague, the echo of raspy words became weaker and easier to seclude away from the fore of his mind. It wasn't long before that empty space was reclaimed by its rightful owner.

 _'Benny.'_ John's heartbeat quickened at the sole thought, projecting a single throb through his scar. A frown knitted his brow. _'I need to know, I need to know more. It's going to happen on his home turf. New Vegas.'_

Cassidy had taken rear-guard duty, Boone the front. After a moment of pondering, John lengthened his stride and locked step with the sniper.

"Benny and these Chairmen. You know of them."

The slapping of soles on the warming tarmac filled the next few minutes. John stared at the road ahead, eyes gliding over the hilltops and cratered desert floor, while Boone gave no sign of acknowledgement. He just walked, the shades giving his face a stern, glaring quality.

Eventually, just as John's nerves were starting to fray, the sniper grunted.

"Are you planning to kill him?"

John nodded, frown darkening. "But first, I want answers." He took Boone's silence as a sign to continue. The sniper didn't twitch, or show any other disapproving reaction. "He chose to dirty his hands for a reason. I want to know why."

 _'I want to know who I am.'_

"What if there isn't one?"

John ground his teeth, nostrils flaring. _'There_ has _to be one!' "_ Then he just dies."

Silence settled between them after that, stretching longer than a few minutes. Behind them, Cassidy drew from her hip-flask once, then again. John eyed the sniper, focusing on his shoulders and his hands for telling signs of exploding violence: it _did_ dawn on him he was discussing murder with a military enforcer, or a soon-to-be-one-again. But at the same time, if somebody could begin to understand, that was probably him.

"Lunch," Boone said eventually, pointing a finger east.

Less than mile off, a family of molerats scurried over the crest of an hill and caracoled down the side in a straight line; pink, hairless pups kept up with the oversized mother with little effort on stubby legs, bodies swaying in rhythm. Boone knelt, shouldered his rifle, peered down the sight; a few heartbeats and a muffled bang later, the mama molerat swayed, toppled and momentum carried it further down the hill in a landslide of dust.

Cassidy whistled, long and low, tilting her hat back on her head. "Nice shot."

Boone nodded, then started off the road. John fell into step behind him on one side, one hand resting on Sunny; Cassidy took the other, Remington out.

The going was smooth, the crunch of dirt and dry bushes as familiar as the dull tapping on the tarmac. Only when they settled down to strip and eviscerate the mutant rat and a couple of its over-affectionate cubs did the conversation resume.

"How much do you know of Vegas?" Boone asked. His bowie parted hide and flesh in linear, practiced motions.

"Big, shiny, lots of caps changing hands." John's were jerky in comparison, due to the broader blade of the gladium. "Another acquaintance of mine comes from there." _'Probably. All roads lead to Vegas.'_

Boone grunted, but Cassidy, on guard duty, butted in off-handedly. "Now, that's new. Who's him?"

" _It_ ," John spat. He pulled out the abdominal sack, careful not to rupture it and cause an even nastier mess. "A Securitron named Victor. I met it back in Goodsprings: it bailed out when the Gangers attacked the town. Killed a... An acquaintance of mine that tried to stop it."

"... Motherfucker," hissed Cassidy.

"Securitrons mean Not-at-Home," said Boone, brows furrowing behind his glasses as his bowie cut into one of the pups' side. "Mr. House," he clarified. "One of his enforcers."

"That's odd, you know," Cassidy said after a full minute of metal parting flesh and the dripping of blood. John's head whipped from the carcass to stare at her. "You barely ever see one of the rolling boxes into Freeside, and that's at his doorstep. What's one doing all the way down in Goodsprings?"

John shook his head, continuing to bleed a good-sized molerat steak dry. "One thing at a time." He turned to Boone. "You were telling me about Benny."

"I wasn't," Boone said. John almost spluttered. "You can't go after a Family Head without knowing how Vegas works. You'll fail, and get more than yourself killed." Behind him, Cassidy turned away, grumbling under her breath, and chugged down some more whiskey.

Something hot and ugly started to uncurl into John's stomach. "Then tell me. Know-how or not, I'm doing it."

The sniper regarded him for a long minute from behind his shades, his face set in blank, calm plates dusted with a day's worth of shave in the early-morning light. For a moment, John had the clear feeling he'd said something terribly stupid, but he squashed that line of thought ruthlessly. Doubt was something he couldn't afford.

 _"You can,"_ Jason Bright's voice whispered in his ear, rasping and tantalizing. _"You must."_

Eventually, Boone sighed and wiped his hands clean-er with a strip of cloth, before he wrapped a steak into it.

"This will take a while."

0 * MiA * 0

"Ain't you a man of many talents," Cassidy said, turning the sketch around like a lost explorer trying to figure out a map. Nibbling at her balled-up lower lip, she passed the sketch back at John, who almost snatched it out of her hands. "I'd imagined him more on the pretty-boy side, from what I heard."

"He's a former tribal. Each Family was, once," Boone said. "Some adapted. Some just put on new clothes."

John listened only with half an ear. When they had stopped to cook the molerat bounty for a late lunch under a dilapidated Sunset Salsaparilla house-sized advert, Boone had fished out a yellowed, cracked sheet of paper from his satchel and bent over it for a good ten minutes with the stub of a pencil.

Benny stared up at him, his face sketched out in quick, hard lines. A wide jaw and high cheekbones framed curled lips and narrow, slightly slanted eyes. The head surmounted seemingly wide shoulders and hinted pattern of black and white stretched the whole of lowest edge of the drawing.

' _So this is him.'_

"Something's comin' back?"

John shook his head, and the corners of the paper curled into his fingers. "Not a thing. Did you have to draw him smiling?"

"He does that. A lot," the sniper said between bites. "The Chairmen are the strongest of the Three Families, and the richest. He has reason to."

"Rich off the NCR's money," John said, stressing a point from all he'd been told in the past few hours. "Your soldiers waste their pays in Vegas, the caravans load and unload there. You give him the energy he needs from the Dam, for free." He tilted his head at Cassidy, who stabbed a chop of rat meat hard with her fork. "Lots go in, but little comes out. What's the point of it?"

"You'd need to see the caps and cash the big wigs throw 'round the casinos to really get the scope it," Cassidy grumbled, then gulped down a bite and continued talking around it. "But you're wrong. Lots of cash flows out, feedin' and paddin' all the caravans and big names from all over the Coast. The Families grow and breed some of the foodstuffs they need, but that's not nearly enough to provide for everyone behind the shining walls. And let's not get started on the chems." She huffed and her eyes lowered to her dish again. "Then there's Freeside and boy , ain't that a mess of its own."

John grunted and folded the drawing in four, tucking it in his new jacket. He could still feel it, even through the thick fabric. "My point is, Mr. House is paying the caravans and everyone else with the money the NCR drops at his doorstep for fun in the first place." He turned to Boone, who'd already started to pack up again. "Pays you back with your own coin. Why do you allow it?"

The sniper didn't answer. If nothing, his face grew even harder to read, smoothing in inscrutable blankness. In a few seconds the leftover meat was nearly packaged against leaks and his satchel was slung across his back.

"There's no other choice."

John rolled his eyes, but was ready to follow moments after. A few kicks of loose dirt dealt with the last of the cooking fire.

"Well, that's really helpful."

"Stop sulkin', cowboy," Cassidy groaned as they stepped back on the road. "Whatd'ya think? It's those tin cans, like your friend up in Goodsprings. Mr. House has hundreds of them, and they pack a mean punch."

"The Brothehood's was worse," Boone offered flatly, a few steps ahead of them. "But they were men under the suits, at least in body, and there were few of them. With machines, it's different."

"How so?" John prodded. "Securitrons field 9mm SMGs and 40mm launchers, but that's small ordinance compared to lasers and plasma. Sure, they have thick plating, but not nearly as much as a T-60, or even a T51. Armor piercing rounds would do, not to mention your own Power Armour units and what armor you must have left from old army deposits and the Enclave. And those wheels are quite the Achilles' tendon."

Cassidy's bemused glance was all the warning he needed and had that he'd just spewed a lot of peculiar information she, at least, didn't expect from him. Information that would draw unwanted attention. As if he hadn't enough already.

He met her look with one of his own that only lasted a moment, a mix of warning and pleading, then he returned his attention to Boone's back, wary of any reaction.

The sniper didn't give any sign he thought he'd said anything odd. Stiffening, flinching, nothing like that. He didn't turn either, didn't miss a step. His voice remained the nearly flat monotone it had been for most of the morning, skipping right over John's oddly informative remark.

The hair on the back of John's neck prickled and stood on end in alarm.

"They're unlike any other robots the Brotherhood threw at us," Boone said. "Securitrons move as fast as trucks, but aren't bound by roads. No morale. No need for logistics, and automated coordination. House commands them directly from his tower, which is protected by plasma cannons." Boone shook his head. "The NCR's fighting on many fronts. Too many. We don't need another one to throw people to die at." His mouth set into a thin grimace, once he almost thought he had imagined. "Can't handle one like House, not with the Legion pressing all over our borders. The army is stretched too thin as it is."

John frowned, and mentally went over again what he appeared to know - or was it remember? - of the Securitron model. Boone's notes on speed and other capabilities sounded new, but at same time plausible and not really shocking. Which meant even those memories he still had had holes and missing pieces.

Just like Doc. Mitchell warned him what seemed years before.

 _"It all comes back to you, doesn't it Benny?"_

An idea, even a solution, came to him, simple and obvious enough for a moment it surprised him it hadn't happened years before. And that made him scowl at the implications.

"The Securitrons would carve through the Legion," he stated, utterly sure.

Boone regarded him with an inscrutable look, then nodded. "The fodder, yes. 9mm chew through their sports gear and leather, even their shields. Legion veterans however, their Triarii, Pricipes and Centurions, those are better kitted."

"And scuttlebutt on the roads has there's lots more of them further East than the NCR tussled with at Hover a few years ago," Cassidy said, pausing for a moment to relax her grip on the Remington and find her hip flask.

"And yer Mr. House hasn't fielded anything to support the NCR so far, has he?" John continued after the silence dragged too long. He stared ahead at a looming tower in the West, its bottom half and most of the complex underneath concealed behind the broken, rocky hills that hugged the Interstate on each side. Further ahead, however, they gave away to what seemed the dried bed of another lake.

"And why would he?" he continued, addressing Boone. "The NCR is fighting for him, protecting him, and he even gets to take your money for your effort." The pieces were slowly slotting together, and John, to his own belated shock, found that the realization bothered him less than he thought it should. It was selfishness on a whole new level to him, but still selfishness. What ground but Easy Pete's grave did he have to condemn that?

Benny's sneering picture burned a hole in his pocket. It was an almost physical mass, churning in his brain and leeching on his every thought, growing fatter and more ravenous.

"No matter how you look at it, he wins, and the NCR loses," John concluded. Boone nodded. "So why are you still here? Because I don't think the NCR brass sees the people of the Mojave as worth the effort."

Primm and Goodsprings burned in his memories, undying examples validating his words.

Cassidy snorted, finding something funny in what he said, but all the answer he got from the sniper was a pointed finger. John followed it back to the same tower he'd been looking at only moment before.

"That's Helios One, the solar plant we took from the Brotherhood," Boone offered, and John mentally linked the tower to the mark his map. "Together with Hover Dam, it provides around forty-five percent of the electricity powering up the Core States."

"We lose those, and our infrastructure, hospitals, industry… everything will just break apart. The NCR would collapse on itself in days."

John glanced back at the tower. "So it's either dripping lives and cash on an altar to the Legion and House, or implosion and chaos?"

"Yeah," Cass said, then hiccupped and burped into her fist. "Whichever way you look at it, the NCR is pretty screwed. But it's still home."

0 = MiA = 0

 _If you're still reading this after almost 100k words, you have my thanks. Also, don't forget to_ _ **review**_ _. Even a few lines of feedback are very important to me._

' _Till next time,_

 _Alexeij_


	12. 10) Right Under Their Nose

**Chapter 10) Right Under Their Nose**

 _So, it's finally here, the chapter I've been postponing for ages. My thanks to_ _ **Aegon Blacksteel**_ _,_ _ **Mandalore of Freedom**_ _,_ _ **DocMarten2525**_ _,_ _ **Designation A1-13**_ _and_ _ **Baslias**_ _for their reviews. The views have taken a terrible plunge as of last chapter, but it was to be expected. My sincerest appreciation to everyone who's still sticking by this story and any and all new readers._

 _A foreword of warning for this chapter, and the story as a whole: people lie. I do, and my fictional characters do too. Often enough, they lie through their teeth, especially when the truth would brand them as terrorists and see them in front of a firing squad, or simply because it serves their purposes._

 _Also, one (or more) of this chapter's scenes may be disturbing to some. The M rating is there for a reason._

 _Now, on to the story. See you at the end._

0 = MiA = 0

At first, the setup was so familiar it almost struck a nostalgic cord. One of those begging for a good drenching in booze, case in point.

Slightly less rundown than most, the El Dorado Gas & Service was a favorite pit-stop area for the caravans that didn't feel like hunkering down at the 188's. Cass and her crew often sought reprieve from the sweltering Mojave glare in the shadow of the overarching structure that spanned the entire yard; or maybe they'd find shelter at night in the shop, with its standing walls to keep out wind and beast alike, a roof and even a makeshift stable for the brahmins.

The staccato of gunfire and the mooing of pack brahmins kind of shattered her wistful recollections. The former also lifted the hat from her head, a new smoking hole in it.

"Sonovabitch!"

She dropped behind the boulder again, firing blindly overhead and missing widely. The bloody raider with its baggy clothes and annoying good aim got a good scar, however, and on her side John sprinted from cover, firing. More guns joined the orchestra on all sides.

Shotgun fed its due again, she dared to take a peek, then rose, pulled the trigger, and crouched again. The .20 gauge caught the woman trying to flank her square in the side as she levelled at the cowboy. Instead, she spun, arms flailing, and crashed in the dirt howling and clawing.

Cass almost winced in sympathy, her own body a collection of aches and black-bluish bruises. Maybe the fuckers would have some Med-x on them. They looked like the right bunch to carry some of that stuff. And booze too.

 _'One more reason to get this over quickly.'_

A crash of shattering glass, and incredible heat washed over her as flames dominated her vision, far too close for comfort. Cass cursed and waved at Boone, perched on a outcrop a hundred meters further down the road. His rifle rocked with no sound but the closer thud of a dropping body. Cass grit her teeth and exploded into a run, cursing up a storm in her head as bullets ate at her heels in puffs of dirt and whizzed past.

Obscenities were exchanged. The wounded brahmin sprawled in front of the service shop mooed weakly in pain as stray shots dug into its flesh, and its pack brother echoed the lament from the garage-turned-stable.

Someone else cursed then, a woman, and there was a loud crash, like a Shi gong beaten by a sledgehammer or the booming chime of a bell, crowned by a wet squelch. A raider flew out of the door, taking half of the rotten wood with him, and tumbled headless across the dusty concrete.

Cass skidded to a halt behind a rusted out car, pushing down the bile to suck in a ragged breath, and lined the shaking muzzle at another improvised raider. The shot tore through his flimsy rags and shredded the leg beneath, rather than his belly; the man, a large boy really, flopped down with a cry, clutching at his mangled stump as blood spurted out in buckets.

His head jerked when John's N99 put him out of his misery, then the cowboy slammed into his mate, shoving her rifle away and silencing her by virtue of his blade buried into her neck. Cass winced, then fired again, but the raider behind the cowboy was dead before he touched the ground, laser fire lancing through him.

The cowboy took the dead girl to the ground with him, using her as a meat shield when the last two opened up full auto on him. Cross-fire from the shop fulminated the firs on the spot; the second one sprayed the façade with bullets in return, but he vomited his screams at John instead.

"Back off! You're dead! You're fucking dead! We buried you in a fucking grave!"

Something clicked in her head.

 _'Oh. Shit.'_

Realization struck the cowboy as well. He hauled the riddled body off and charged forward, huffing like a bull.

 _'Poor analogy there.'_

"Cease fire! Stop! I need him alive!"

By the time he had taken two steps the last raider had disappeared into the service shop, having decided to take his chances with the pinned caravaneers inside rather than outside.

Or maybe he hadn't, and he was simply too panicked to notice where he was going. _Away_ must have seemed an enticing prospect. Cass would never know.

There were half a rapid-fire dozen explosions, then the same loud gong crash echoed, and the raider went sailing out one of the boarded windows in a shower of splinters and blood. His body got stuck halfway through and he remained dangling outside by the legs, chest caved in, horror forever sculpted on his mustachioed, slack features.

"NO!"

"John, stop!"

A muzzle hissed behind the shattered window, outlining the profile of the shooter in the dark, and the dirt at John's feet ignited and hissed, a small patch solidifying into glass. The cowboy halted, body shaking with tension, hands ghastly white around his dripping weapons.

"Stop right there! One more step, and I'll shoot you where you stand!"

When Cassidy realized John was actually _considering_ it, bloody regeneration and all, she did something stupid.

"Ohi!" she yelled back, out-shouting the waning moos of the wounded brahmin. Then she exposed herself from cover. "Some bloody gratitude is too much for you?"

"Drop your weapon and then we'll - Ouch, the hell was that for? Don't step out!"

"Stop being an meanie, Stenton."

What remained of the shop door creaked open, then promptly fell of the hinges. Out came a tall woman in a drab, thick robe that fell over her like a sack, leaving only her face bare under the scarf wrapped around her head.

Pretty, and worn, Cass considered abstenly.

The newcomer shielded her eyes from the glare above with an arm, the one not splattered with scarlet. Then her expression broke and she kneeled in the blood soaked dirt by one of the brahmin's heads, cradling it tenderly in her lap.

"Oh Moe, I'm so sorry," she soothed. "You were a good brahmin, the best a girl could ask for."

Cass blinked as the brahmin mooed back, weak and wet, then blinked again as the woman folded herself over the dying beast. A snapping _crack_ boomed like dynamite and broke the settling silence like a thunderclap. The mooing fell silent.

Cass blinked again, reflexively stiffening her grip on the Remington. " _How… Just how frickin' strong is she?"_ Unbidden, she found herself staring at John, speculation trading blows with worry.

"Veronica, for the love of - Hey, stand back! Stand back or I'll shoot you, I swear I'll shoot you!"

John didn't seem impressed, for apparently he had covered the short distance to the shop unharmed and unburned. Summarily, he hauled the broken body of the last raider off its temporary rest and dropped it on the ground. His knees dug into the dirt as feverish hands searched for a pulse, then settled on the crushed ribcage, and he was on his feet again, head whipping around.

"This one's still alive."

Cass nearly jumped out of her boots. Boone was not twenty feet away from her, crouched beside the girl raider Cass had clipped in the side. She caught a hint of his eyes from the side, where the shades didn't protect him, but couldn't decipher what she saw.

It was only a moment, then he shifted, rifle at the ready as trained at the service shop. Then the cowboy stormed in.

"Why?" The obsessive, unhealthy care he'd shown for the Vipers' victims only a few days before didn't belong to the man that shook the wounded girl bleeding in the dirt by the collar of her baggy vest, despite her weak, clawing hands; nor even to the one who jammed a stimpak in her side so hard Cass was half sure the needle had broken. "Why did you shoot me? What did he want?"

His face, Cass could read.

 _Who am I?_

"Hey, you won't get an answer if you break her neck when asking."

Cass couldn't help but arch a disbelieving eyebrow as the woman who just twisted a brahmin's neck approached, her robe marred by fresh, sticky animal spittle. She stopped a short distance away when Boone's rifle shifted the tiniest fraction, and lifted her hands in surrender, revealing a bulky metal gauntlet around her right hand when the bloodied sleeve slid back.

"Peace, truce. I only want to give a hand."

"Which one?"

The woman chuckled at Cass, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. And then Cass was being raked over, her smirk appreciative. "Oh you know, depends what you want from me."

The other eyebrow sailed up to join the first.

 _'Oh. OH.'_

The wet cough was a bucket of cold water in a desert night. The girl still tried to scratch John's grip away, but he didn't budge, and the amount of blood flowing out of her mangled side didn't bode well for the stimpak's effects. Not a word passed - John's impotent growl didn't count - and Boone gave the other woman space, his face inscrutable.

She knelt by the wounded side and produced a small pouch labeled with a red cross from the folds of her robe, but hesitated on the latches, staring broodingly at the throbbing, spurting wound.

"Do something!" John snarled.

The woman bit her lip, then freed a knife from the girl's belt and slid it in one smooth motion through her ribs. Her breath caught, and she gargled. One last exhale and her chest didn't rise again.

"Why the fuck? I needed her to speak!"

Cass was positive the cowboy was about to throw himself at the woman. _'Just a few more miles more, a couple of days in Vegas, and this will be over one way or another.'_ He didn't, surprisingly, but Cass knew she wasn't the only one keeping eye and gun out for the shooter still concealed in the service shop.

"No first aid kit can fix a ruptured lung and that kind of damage," the woman replied, not shrinking back, rather rising to the confrontation. "There's this little thing called mercy in the vocabulary, I can lend you a copy if you want."

"Their employer shot me in the head!"

The woman tilted her head, then peered closer. "Wow. You look spiffing for someone just out of the grave." Her look turned sceptic. "You sure it's these guys? That'd be one big coincidence."

Cass snorted. Boone didn't. His voice came from an entire different direction from what she presumed was his position.

"These were Khans."

One of the bodies, the top half of his head a mangled pulp, had his filthy rags that somehow passed as clothes cut through by Boone's bowie knife. Underneath, however, wasn't bare skin and grime, rather a coarse jerkin of treated leather - bighorner, if she had to guess. The right shoulder was a patchwork of ink in the shape of a grinning red skull with a horned helm instead.

"Oh cool. I always wanted a tattoo. Bad taste though."

"Veronica!"

The last unknown had decided to reveal himself, and Cass's opinion of the guy plummeted immediately. ' _Who wears spiky metal armour to traipse the desert? Is this guy half-Fiend?'_ She didn't miss the short, longing look John shot the laser rifle cradled in the guard's hands, but she couldn't bring herself to feel guilty about it. She was too busy following every twitch of those hands and eyeing cover.

The woman, Veronica, huffed, pocketed her medic bag, and walked back to the service shop, scarlet beads pot-marking her trail. After long moments, Cass followed John's initiative instead, and started looting the bodies for anything of value, but avoided tearing the clothes from their bodies like he did.

"Khans don't mask themselves," Boone said at some point. "They never do. The attire, and tattoos: it's a matter of tribe pride for them."

Cass nodded along, emptying another's pockets of caps and ammo. "I thought they'd stopped raidin' caravans though, after Bitter Springs." Then her fingers stopped, and she retrieved a small, familiar syringe that made her bruises ache all the more keenly.

Cass hesitated, then pocketed the Med-x syringe rather than adding it to the small but growing pile. Shame flickered and died under the onslaught of justification, but she refused the urge to uncork the cap and plunge the needle in the crook of her arm right there and then.

Her internal conflict lasted several seconds before reaching a comfortable solution, and only then did she realize neither Boone nor the cowboy were speaking.

Shame resurfaced, briefly, until she saw neither were looking at her accusingly. _'The fuck should I care anyway?'_ The sniper had barely budged from his position, back stiff as a board and fists shaking, while John had moved away to another body, closer to Veronica and her companion, now gesticulating wildly at them and each other as they argued in low tones.

Five minutes later, the argument winded down as the last of the spoils was arranged on a cleaner stretch of the tarmac. Cass was surprised to see the fool in the metal armor, Stanton, rein in the surviving brahmin, secure the dead one's cargo on it and take the road north, to Boulder and the 188's. Veronica didn't follow him, approaching their small circle instead with a stretched smile and an empty duffel on her shoulder.

"Sharing the loot? Ooh, I want in!"

"Not now," John interrupted, drawing three pairs of eyes to himself. Only then Cass noticed the dented canteen in his hands, the metal caved in the shape of a bullet… or a finger. Scratches and wear didn't completely destroy the blue paint, however, nor the yellow numbers bold and wide on one side. Glancing at the pile, she noticed a couple of similar ones Veronica added to the heap.

The cowboy glared at the one in his hands as if it held the gun in his head in Goodsprings' Cemetery.

"Where's Vault 11?"

0 * MiA * 0

Splitting the loot was a matter of few minutes. The few hundred caps went four ways, while everyone took a pick from the ammo and weapon pile. Cassidy added a modified Browning Hi-Power and a few extra 9mm mags to her belt, as well as a combat knife. Boone pocketed a spare Sig-Sauer for extra pieces and John found himself the new owner of a Marlin 336C Carbine and a sizeable amount of .44 magnum and 10mm ammo.

It wasn't Fritz, not by a long shot, but it'd have to do.

The rest of the weapons, mostly SMGs of the 9mm and 10mm caliber together with a few odd guns and a baseball bat were gathered in Cassidy's backpack for John to haul around, with the tacit agreement to share the profits after the sell.

Veronica picked only a knife, which promptly disappeared under her robe.

The chems presented another problem: nobody wanted the several doses of Psycho and Jet, nor the single odd Med-x syringe. John suggested Cassidy should take it, noticing how stiff in pain she'd be at times. He received only a muted glare in return, and didn't speak of it again. Eventually, they were added to the backpack as well, solution pending. Then John could wait no more.

Nor, apparently, could Veronica.

"They killed my brahmin. Besides, I'm the only one who knows the way. Of course I'm coming."

And so it was that three became four.

John didn't particularly care either way, though he did hesitate for a moment when she readily guided them off the road and through the wind-battered dry lake to the north-west. Loose sand hindered sight: it reminded John sharply of the Legion ambush at Nipton and further before, of a dawn chase through the sandstorm.

Growing distress battled with the churning sense of expectation, hope and frustration than engulfed him after the fight with the Khans. The Mojave desert, however, in a rare bout of thoughtfulness, provided him with an outlet in the shape of the giant ants whose territory they unwittingly trespassed.

The fight was short, and completely one sided. The giant ants charged in a straight line, jaws clicking and chittering, kicking up more billowing clouds of dust. John bloodied the Marlin, partnering up with Boone, and what stragglers survived the barrage where summarily mopped up by Cassidy and Veronica, who punched the last big one straight through its chitin head with her right. The resulting yellowish gory splatter was met by a tight grimace of disgust.

"Ow, gross. Laundry time here I come."

"Where did you find a Power Fist like that anyway?" Cassidy asked, lips quirking in amusement. Veronica perked up at the question, and the snowball was kicked down the side of the mountain.

"Oh, this?" She lifted her metal-encased hand, then continued cleaning it with irradiated water as they walked. "It's a gift from my Father. Well, not my biological dad, but he raised me anyway, and he was my congregation's Father for a long time." She looked at the Power Fist so fondly, John half expected her to start cooing. "Best friend a girl could ask for."

"Ah, I feel you there!" Cassidy agreed, patting the Remington.

"A… congregation," Boone echoed instead, making himself an accomplice.

Veronica nodded energetically. "Yep. We came down from Oregon what, ten years ago, more or less, but we tend to keep to our own up in the Black Mountains. Pray the Lord, till the land, that kind of busywork. Just like one big Family. And when we need something, I pack a couple of brahmins and go to the 188's, or maybe the Grub 'n Gulp." Her face fell, and she grumbled as a glob of something stubbornly resisted her attempts to remove it. "At least, I used to. Today's was my last run for, well, quite a long while."

"It this about your friend, whatshisname, Stenton?" Cassidy asked, inching closer.

"Oh, he's not my friend. He's my Brother," Veronica pointed out with a huff. "Everyone, one big Family. Stenton is that kind of sibling all families have, you know?" Cassidy nodded after a moment. John didn't. He didn't know what that meant, or how that felt. And if he had, once, he sure as hell didn't remember.

 _'Would they just shut up?'_

"But the current Father kind of decided I was just one more uterus not popping the mandatory three babies apiece, so I'm stranded."

John spluttered.

Cassidy cursed.

Boone grunted.

"And you're alright with that?" Cassidy asked carefully, voice low. Veronica shrugged.

"Well, Stenton won't be the father. That's definitely a plus. He will take my job though, and he's a contrary guy, so I foresee a lot of stupidity ahead. Still, I'll get dresses and motherhood incentives, because we're modern like that and there's just soo few of us." At the silent question, she shrugged. "We had a bad run in with ghouls a few years back."

John shook his head and spat on the ground, but Cassidy pressed on. _'Does she enjoy adopting strays or what?'_

"No, I mean, are _you_ alright with that? Arranged marriage… to a man?"

John frowned, and Boone made a small, strangled sound, like he'd sucked in a breath and coughed at the same time.

Veronica chuckled.

"Yeah right, who would believe it? The devious clam eater, ravisher of every unsuspecting, innocent woman on her path, tamed at last! I hope Mr. New Vegas airs it with a lot of sound effects and fireworks."

This time, it was John's turn to choke.

0* MiA *0

The only moral dilemma on whether to eliminate the Khan sentinels or attempt a non-lethal takedown for interrogation was put pause to when Veronica guaranteed there were more inside. She was very open too when questioned why.

"I meant to do some scavenging here a couple weeks ago," she whispered, flat on her belly as Boone searched the area through his scope. "Vault means lots of goodies, but they'd already set up shop. At the time, they were unloading a couple of brahmins that didn't quite look like they only carried provisions, but there was definitely more than half a dozen of them."

"What else was there?" Boone asked.

"Don't know for sure, but quite a lot of chemicals."

Boone frowned, stopped bringing up going for the Boulder or 188's garrison for support, and then dropped the two sentinels with as many shots.

A steep slope later, they stood at the mouth of a cave that had little of mother's nature hand in it. Boone took point, John not a step behind. Halfway in, Veronica piped up, voice low enough not to bounce off and echo.

"Concrete floors, chrome walls, broken lights overhead… oh, that's a warning sign! Yep, this definitely leads into a Vault. Or some other spooky bunker site."

The descent was quick and gentler than the ascent, their steps soft and hurried. The odd working neon lamp prevented the darkness from encroaching too closely, but also messed with night vision in any form or shape. Still, not too long after Boone's fist rose, and quick signs split them on each side of the massive cog-shaped door rolled on one side of the cave. Flaked paint bespoke of past care, but time rendered the large '11' at the center of the cog only a faintly, outlined shape in the thick metal.

Light and voices rolled out from inside, snappy and bored.

"How long do you think yet, Mel?" someone, a man, asked, words slurred by a slow, wet munching. "Jack and Diane've been at it for weeks. Must have made loads of them."

"It'll be done when it'll be done."

"It's just, this place gives me the creeps, you know?" the first voice continued. "You listened to them logs? They killed their leaders, and then they killed each other, and then they killed themselves. Bonkers, worse than them Fiends. If the other Vaults are screwed up like this one, I'm sure glad Papa took us away from California."

"Shut up," she hissed, and John tensed, trying to ascertain his distance from the voices. Behind him, Cassidy shuffled. "You hit your head or what? That fucker Navache kicked us out of our home, killed our people. If it wasn't for him, Papa wouldn't kiss up to anybody's ass."

"Bah! Papa kisses nobody's ass, Mel," the man spat back. "You better remember that: if not for him and Regis, you'd be just another miner girl in that quarry, shaking your ass and spreading your legs for the NCR."

"Fuck you!"

Boone's hand cut the air and John shot out of cover as the sniper's rifle hissed its first call. A large, moldy room that stank of musk and waste surrounded John. His eyes narrowed: the two Khans stood at the feet of a short flight of stairs, stuck on opposite sides of a narrow passage.

The man's head jerked to the side, blood and brains spraying over rust and dirt; John was only steps away from the woman with the twin mohawks when she stopped staring and turned around, slowly and sluggishly. A foot away, his right fist already swinging, her eyes widened and she leant back faster than he had expected, one hand flying at her hip.

The fist meant for her jaw missed narrowly, but she didn't manage a draw, or a warning cry. John overstretched, and the hook turned into an elbow strike to the side of her head. Something cracked, her eyes rolled, and she crumpled into a heap. John stumbled from momentum, but managed to stop her from crashing head-first into the sharp edge of the steps by grabbing the Khan by one wide, muscular shoulder.

 _'Damn, she's heavy.'_

Blood trickled lazily down her temple when Boone secured her to the nearest railing with a pair of manacles, but her pulse was steady. The body of her tribal brother was quickly cooling, only a few steps away.

"Watch your fire, there may be chemicals afloat," Boone instructed, tucking the key in his pants. "We need to find out what's going on here. Doe, you take point with me. Keep to the 10mm. We don't know how many are in."

"We take their leader alive," John said in a tone that broke no argument. He checked Sunny's mag, then slapped it back into place. "He will have the answer I need."

"With all the fragile instruments they had, I'd say the Medic Bay is the best place to start," Veronica offered, turning away from a console nearby. "There should be signs nearby, maybe even a wall map that's not too rotten."

"Are the cameras still on?"

She shrugged. "Maybe? Can't really tell from here."

"Let's go," Boone said, face tight. He was the first through the door. John followed.

It was weird to be answering to someone else's directions in combat. It happened in Primm with Sarah Lyons at first, but there he'd been largely left to his own devices. During the assault of the NCRCF, Lt. Hayes had been content with letting him be the first through the perimeter breach and into the Warden's office; he honestly couldn't recall much during or after that, only convict blues and drab browns-and-grays looking like interchangeable targets. He supposed he'd been lucky none of the NCR troops at the time had been ahead of him, or he'd still rot in some cell at the outpost. Probably.

Boone left little to chance, picking their approach with a level voice at every turn, always on point, finger a hair's breadth away from the trigger.

The Vault expanded like a spider web further into the hill, and deeper underground. Moldy posters covered every square inch of the walls, the crumbling paper peeling and smudged, making most of them only an indecipherable mess of ink and humidity. The air was heavy, almost charged, the quartet's steps muffled by the grimy pavements but still impossibly loud to John.

He kept his breath steady, his eye peeled to every dancing shadow and every side door that opened up like giant mouths in every direction. Specks of green and small pools of congealed red blood, complete with partial dragging traces, pock-marked the halls here and there; the skeletons, however, were far more numerous, and human: draped over desks, sprawled across doors or behind sandbags, the loose bones covered stretches of the Vault, mixing with clutter and spent shell casings. Everywhere, the faded, torn blue of Vault Suits drew the eye, each patch a life broken in violence.

"What the fuck happened here?" Cassidy whispered at some point. Nobody had an answer, and the dead Khan's words hung heavily above them.

The first three Khans they jumped as they shared a meal in one of many bedrooms, sitting around a low round table and chowing on what smelled like grilled mantis with a serving of BlamCo Mac & Cheese. After Boone ascertained that none wore the gallons of a Khan Sergeant, he placed a bullet between the eyes of the furthest off.

John and Veronica grabbed the other two into chokeholds halfway up on their feet. In the following, short-lived struggle for air, one upturned the table with a kick. John broke his neck, but the damage was done.

The crash echoed up and down the halls like a bighorner stampede.

The hurried slapping of boots echoed back a moment later.

 _Two_ , Boone signalled, then disappeared into the open room on the opposite side of the corridor. Cassidy followed him as the echoes grew closer, while John and Veronica dragged the bodies, both corpses and unconscious, out of sight behind a double bed.

"One of these guys might be the leader," she offered helpfully as she slid on the side of the door's entrance.

"Don't kill him then," he grunted back and she chuckled, giving him a thumb up.

"Might be a her."

"Anton, Clint, Tam, the fuck are you doing? Wanna kill Jack's nerves and blow us all up?" a voice snarled a short distance away, closing in - a male voice, John noticed, and couldn't help but smirk savagely when Veronica rolled her eyes. "You've got a shift coming right up, so get it over with!"

 _"Would you get it over with?"_

 _"Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink, dig it?"_

John's world spun, ripping off its hinges. His lungs constricted, unable to take in even a breath of the stale Vault air. The steps boomed closer, each one a detonation going off in his head, ever closer. A soaked poster squished under his hand, and then the familiar voice cut through everything like a ripper.

"What the -"

"YOU!"

John's left hand closed around a face he didn't see, his vision pulsating with red. Flesh gave way, bone cracked and someone howled in pain. A shout, three, and momentum carried John forward, out of the room. Hands clutched and clawed at his arm, then a sickening, melodious crack, another, and they went limp, fingers sliding off his wrist.

His hand was wet, his fingers sticky into his palm, and the dead body collapsed on the floor to fall on one side, his strings cut. John stared at the ruined face, its black complexion savaged, bald head running with blood oozing from a smashed skull.

He came up with a blank.

Pain erupted on the right side of his face and John staggered back, hears screeching and vision swimming. His knee slammed on the concrete and he went down, hands flailing for balance. Someone cursed, the string nipped in the bud by a ragged choke and spraying bullets.

Every sound echoed like the parade marching band's drums in his head and for long moments John didn't know what was up and what was down. Then the blur receded as the echoes of choking were replaced by distant cries of alarm, and John was staring up at the ceiling. Probably.

"John! Cowboy, hey, look at me! Are you 'lright?"

Freckles and red, but warmer. He almost smiled, then he winced when his muscles pulled, his heart beating in his temple.

"The hell…"

"He whacked you good," Cassidy said. "Stay down, you're bleeding. Might have broken a bone or two."

John shook his head as gunfire overlapped on the cries. Adrenaline surging, he propped himself on his elbows and promptly vomited to the side, one hand probing his belt for Sunny.

"You're makin' a habit of tryin' and pukin' on me, cowboy," Cassidy snarked, her hand steadying his shoulder, the other holding the Browning levelled at something, or someone, out of his sight. "Forgot much about flirtin', have you?"

John snorted and choked on some residual puke, his chest heaving in a breathless coughing fit, then got on all four and tried to catch his breath.

His head was staging a great attempt at murdering him. It was like waking up at Mitchell's all over again, but without the good drugs.

 _'Wait, I have one in the pack… no, no I can do this. I've got to.'_

"Gimme – Give me a hand up."

Cassidy slung his arm around her shoulders and heaved him up with a grunt, but as the world decided it was time to shake and blend, her gun never wavered, even as she puffed under his weight.

John leaned hard into a wall, wishing for his legs to support him better with poor results. The lighting was bad and sparks electrified the air from neon lights shattered by bullets overhead. It was good enough, however, for John to feel, and then see, the burning glare the red-headed Khan fixed him with from his slumped position against the wall.

His left leg was clearly busted, resting at an odd angle at the knee. Pale, waxy skin glistening with cold sweat and the beady, bloodshot eyes were a far cry from the looming figure with a shovel blurring now in his memories and even from the man he'd almost slammed against the wall moments before, only to luckily miss the target. The hate was the same, however, seeping thick and contorting his features into an ugly mug barely hidden by a bandana resting askew and a disheveled mohawk.

"Veronica broke his leg," Cassidy said. John waved away the stim she offered him, and he gingerly touched the throbbing side of his face. His hand came away wet with scarlet, but whatever shit coursed through his veins was already getting to work, stretching and pulling his flesh to work off the damage. "Boone said he was the leader."

"Oh yes, he is."

He didn't let Cassidy's odd look bother him.

0 * MiA * 0

"Nitroglycerine, TNT, HMX, RDX, fulminates… Shit. There are enough explosives here to raze a mountain."

"Or a city," Boone added.

The cowboy nodded, and Cass could see him bite down on the pain _. 'Stubborn fool.'_ "It was blind luck those two hadn't hooked a detonator to any of this… and that your aim is as good as it is."

The sniper received the praise with a grunt, not rising from his chair or taking his eye away from the small gaggle of bound Khans in the room as the cowboy cataloged all the shit just _two_ of them had cooked up together. Veronica had told her Boone had shot one in the hand before he could do, quote, 'something really stupid we wouldn't have the time to regret', before she herself disappeared deeper into the recesses of the Vault with a toolbox and her empty duffles for 'scavenging'.

Cass would have been worried, even suspicious, if her stomach wasn't already knotting up for what was about to get underway.

"Are you really going through with this?" she asked John when he walked out, a spare knife tucked in his belt. She kept her voice low as he rummaged into a doctor's bag, but John didn't bother.

"I need information. Boone needs information." He shrugged, but his gaze was intent as he took stock of the meds at his disposal. "It's the easiest way."

"Doesn't mean it's the right one."

"You're going to stand there and tell me they don't _deserve_ this?" John spat. "After what they did to me? They make chems, sell chems to the _Fiends_ , raid caravans. They're no better than the Vipers, or the Legion."

Cass flinched and turned to Boone for support, even a silent one. She met only the mirrored glass of his shades and a taut posture that suggested brooding, but not necessarily disapproval. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what exactly was going through his head.

John moved past her, grabbed the Khan Sergeant, Jessup, by the scruff of his neck and dragged him bodily into a side room. The man didn't scream or fight futilely, opting to preserve his strength. He barely grunted when his hastily splinted leg bounced onto the door's base, before it hissed shut behind them.

Somehow, maybe through a ventilation shaft, their conversation reached her and everyone's ears as if they had never moved in the first place.

"You dug your way out of the grave. Congrats: you're one tough bastard."

"Thanks."

"But I'm tougher. I'm a Khan. Do you even know what this symbol means?"

"Tell me."

"That you won't get a word out of me. Not a breath. Nothing! I'd sooner die than betray Papa."

"Your screams are good enough for now."

The crunch of shattering bones and snapping tendons made Cass sick to her stomach.

Jessup screamed.

"Why did Benny hire you?"

"Fuck.. You!"

CRUNCH!

"Eight fingers and one knee to go, Khan. Speak. Why did he hire you? What did he want from me?"

"Your mother's -"

CRUNCH!

Cass doubled over into a corner and retched as Jessup's screams numbed her ears and twisted her insides.

"What. Did he want. From. ME?"

"Y-you'll have t'do better'an -"

CRUNCH! CRUNCH! SNAP!

The molerat chops she had for lunch garnished the drab concrete, the acrid tang of interrupted digestion blending with stale and moldy. Jessup screamed himself hoarse, rattled the chair he was bound to in thrashing. After a while, it was reduced to liquid coughs.

Boone had gone pale in his chair, knuckles bloodless around his gun, but might have been one of the Ranger Statues for all that he moved, his stance carved from granite.

"You better hope he starts talking," he spelled out, lips barely parting. "Or he'll come for you next."

"Speak!" John thundered from the other side of the door.

"A chip… p-poker… a poker chip made of p-p-platinum."

"And what does it have to do with me?"

"You - you were carrying it. In your ugh… in your fuckin' pocket."

"What was it for?"

"Eh, f-fuck me if I know -"

CRUNCH!

The bound Khans, three in number, had long dropped all pretense of boisterous confrontation and instead opted to huddle closer together, drawing comfort and resolve from contact and numbers. Their heads still held high, but their eyes betrayed the doubt and behind that, a mounting, numbing fear tinged with disgust and shame.

A blonde woman fussed over the bloody bandages on the pale guy whose hand Boone had shot as much as she could through her bonds of rope. Cass locked gazes with her for but a moment, no longer than a flutter of eyelashes, and a hard knot of resolve wound tight into her belly.

"Hey Boone, gimme the key. I'm taking that other lass here."

The sniper's head turned a fraction and Cass realized he'd been observing the same woman she was. She held his scrutiny for long moments, his unseen eyes probing her; then the key landed in her outstretched palm and Cass was out of that room before doubt could take root and stop her feet.

Jessup's screams and broken, wheezed taunts chased her through the poorly-lit halls. She favored speed over carefulness, the echo of her boots trying to contest the results of John's handiwork and failing. Twice, she took a wrong turn and had to backtrack under the guidance of faded signs. Each time, Jessup's voice grew weaker, fueling Cass's apprehension and gait.

The Khan woman with the twin mohawks was conscious and glaring when she finally reached the Admission Hall. One arm was outstretched well above her head, thin rivulets of blood running down its length from her wrist, the skin torn and tender around the manacle from pulling. The left side of her face and neck was one long mask of dried blood.

"Come back to finish the fucking job for your murderer friends, bitch?"

Cass frowned and looked around, her grip on the Browning Hi-Power shifting. Jessup's screams died down in the distance, but the echo lingered in her ears.

"I'm talking to ye, you stupid NCR bitch!"

"Shut up."

Cass crouched in front of the Khan woman, a safe distance away. ' _Mel'_ , she recalled from the eavesdropped conversation _'She's so fuckin' young_ '. The Khan didn't conceal her hate, same as dirt and grime couldn't conceal the last vestiges of baby fat on her cheeks, but her eyes looked the same as the others. Hell, hers probably looked the same.

She showed her the small key impressed into the skin her free palm. Mel's eyes widened a fraction and something small shone at the back of them for a short moment, before the Khan reined herself in and doused it.

"Come to taunt me before ya shoot me?"

"I want your oath, on your honor as a Khan -"

"Bite me."

" - that if I give you this," Cass continued through a twinge of annoyance, "you won't shoot me and mine in the back, or wait outside and just get murdered."

"You killed _mine_ and you fucking expect _what_?"

"I'm savin' your life here, kiddo," Cass hissed. "Your friends inside, they're fucked through and through. You can still choose: go and warn your tribe that their gig is up, or stay and expect a life sentence at the NCRCF or wherever the fuck they send raiders these days."

The manacles clicked open. Mel hastily wrapped gauze around her wrist and head, but to Cass's surprise she didn't even glance at the SMG on the dead Khan's body.

 _'There's still the two dead guys outside. This was stupid. You're a moron Cass.'_

"Whatcha waitin' for?" Cass tilted the 9mm gun at her. "Scurry."

"I'll kill you one day. All of you," the girl spat, teeth bared. "I promise."

"Sure thing. Now go, before I change my mind."

Mel disappeared into the tunnel without a glance back, the echo of her running feet slowly dying down. Cass waited for long moments, then the tension flowed out of her in a single, ragged exhale that left her throat itching, her body aching like a bitch and her gut craving a thorough drenching.

"What the fuck have you done Cass? Letting raiders today; what's next?"

"Oh, it was probably the right thing to do."

Cass whipped around, the Browning rising and blocks of ice showering into her stomach. Veronica lifted her hands in surrender, comfortably leaning into the door's frame, a bulging, strained couple of duffels at her feet and a third slung across her back.

An awkward silence spread between them, undisturbed by any screaming from the belly of the Vault. Cass broke it first, lowering her gun.

"How much did you hear?"

Veronica shrugged. "Does it matter? I'm not going to rat you out. That'd be mean and poor." A small grin curled the edge of her lips in amusement. "Besides, you just made a life-long enemy: don't let me ruin the moment."

Cass sighed, rubbing her brows and wishing she could just bow over and sleep right there and then, dead body or not. The Med-x was burning a hole in her pocket. "I did, didn't I?"

"Yep," Veronica chuckled. "Now snap the manacles close and let's just tell the boys she dislocated her thumb and run off."

0 * MiA * 0

"Ehi, Stenton."

"Veronica, where the - what's in those bags?"

"Uff. All the pieces Lorenzo needs for the air filtration systems. Vault 11 had plenty to spare, all seals intact. Nice and easy."

"You really went to the Vault? What about those savages?"

"The Khans? The Station guys helped me clear most of them out. See, sometime being friendly and not a contrary brat pays the dividends."

"Ugh. Fine. I'm nearly done here, just waiting for the Gun Runners guy to come up with the spares I requested, and then we can go back home."

"Oh, you go on ahead. I'll catch up."

"Veronica, what's this flight of fancy? Elder McNamara -"

" _Father_ McNamara, Sten-boy."

" -Father McNamara's orders are clear. You don't come back, it's desertion, and with one of those blasted NCR soldiers too."

"Oh come on, look around. NCR, NCR, NCR: can't really avoid the bear around these parts. You'll just tell Father I met some interesting people now."

"Veronica, as your superior officer -"

"Nope, can't play a Scribe. Your promotion hasn't been ratified yet. Oh, I got to go. See you later!"

"… Shit."

0 * MiA * 0

Boone and John handed the three surviving Khans to the garrison at the 188 Trading Post just west of Boulder city as the last of the orange faded from the darkened sky, leaving the full moon unchallenged. The sniper said he would handle the debriefing with the Lieutenant in charge on his own, and John saw no reason to insist otherwise.

He left the circle of drab, discolored tents minutes later and after a short round of questions, made his way across the overpass where the Highway 93 and the Highway 95 joined and into the chaotic field of tin shacks and hollow-out trailers that made for the 188 Trading Post, the beating heart of trade in that stretch of the Mojave.

The silver-engraved Zippo clicked open and shut in his hand in a slow rhythm, the flame flickering briefly and warming his thumb on the flint against the cooling night breeze. John had retrieved it from Jessup's pockets shortly before he placed two rounds in his head, but not before the other Khan, Jack, had spilled the sack when presented with the offer to join John in on the fun.

As it turned out, the Khans worked with the Legion. An alliance, with the explosives as a oath of sorts to seal it. John had left both those and the bodies for the NCR mop up crews and corps to clean up.

He was careful to keep the Zippo in his right, lest he crush it. Jack had sworn up and down it belonged to none other than Benny, a bonus to the hefty payment the leader of the Chairmen gave the Khan for their assistance in dealing with John himself. Caps the Khans had readily invested into the materials needed to produce such a large amount of explosive, right at the Hoover Dam's doorstep.

He spotted Veronica taking with her Brother at the brahmin loading area, and nodded at her, to which she replied with a jaunty wave. Cass told him she broke Jessup's leg in the Vault before be could shoot him, where with that Power Fist of hers she could have turned his head into paste much more safely. An oddly considerate thought, in a way. The heavy duffels' she hauled from the Vault, however, spelled it in bold letters that she'd had her own reasons in their little expedition, dead brahmin or not. John didn't particularly mind.

Too bad the Khan girl had managed to run for the hills. If the Mojave didn't swallow her up, not an option to discard, she'd probably reach the Khans' main camp at Red Rock Canyon long before any force mobilized by the NCR could, and warn the rest of the tribe of the danger. Boone had said it was rather likely that their leader, Papa Khan, would choose to stand his ground and bloody the NCR nose rather than flee with his tail between his legs. At that point, a blockade would probably be enacted, corralling the Khans into the Canyon until thrist and hunger didn't get them first.

Be it as it may, the Khans time in the Mojave was quickly running dry. Vindication throbbed in his chest, more painful than the large bruise marring half of his face.

 _'Another voice ticked off the list.'_

Benny would be next, unless he found Victor first in Vegas. And yet, neither Jessup nor Jack hadn't known everything: two questions remained unanswered, from ignorance rather than reticence. Two question that run in circles in his head, chasing each other for lack of an answer.

 _'Who am I?'_

 _'Why is that Chip worth so much to Benny?'_

He heard Cass long before he spotted her in the descending dark, haggling on the prices of the gun liberated from the Khans with the Gun Runners' representative in a open-door shop watched over by a couple of rough-faced, mean-looking guards. It looked like it was going well, but then again Veronica should receive her share as well, if she was still at the 188's when the transaction ended. It was only fair.

"Here, split it with the others," she said shortly after, and John found himself with his hands full with a pure fat of jingling caps. "Try the double burger for dinner. But for the love of God, don't waste your caps on the mirelurk soup: all shell, little meat."

"Why, you're not eating?"

Cass shook her head and looked over his shoulder at the desert bathed in the moonlight, eyes shining.

"I'll pick something for the road. I - I asked around. My caravan… it's a short way north from here, the ambush site." She exhaled, then popped a joint in her neck, her lower lip curled into a ball. "A couple of hours tops. I can go and get back before sunup, and then we can continue to Vegas."

"I'm coming with you."

She sighed, weariness draining the heat from her words. "John, rest. I can manage."

"I know you can," he told her. "But you've hired me for the job - yes, you have, we already had this discussion. Besides, whoever did that may still be around."

"It's been weeks. Even the Cazadores will have move forward at this point."

"Might still be some gang hunting grounds," he replied, setting his jaw. "Slavers, Jackals, Fiends. Look at what happened today."

Something passed on her face then, something John didn't quite catch. A grimace, or maybe hesitation. Fear, even. John's gaze dropped to his hands, still raw from when he scrubbed Jessup's blood away.

 _'She has every right to.'_ But he couldn't regret what he had done, even for her sake.

"Alright," she finally said. "Let's split the money, see if the others are up to it. Though I guess it'll be hard to swap a bed for the cold ground, I guess."

"Let's buy bedrolls then. I saw some on that truck by the NCR tents."

Cassidy chuckled dryly as she walked past him and started climbing up to the overpass. "Ah, former sergeant Madeline. She'll rob you blind, mark my words."

And rob him blind she did, while Cassidy contented herself by munching her double bighorner burger from the sidelines and whispering to Veronica. John's purse was far lighter at the end of it, but the bedroll's comfort at the bottom of his own, new pack and the promise of a decent rest rather than bumpy knots in the morning left him feeling justified.

Boone joined them shortly after and gave a mute assent to the impromptu expedition, quickly walking ahead on the road without as much as glancing back.

"Isn't he a ball of sunshine," Veronica quipped.

"He's been through some terrible shit recently," John bit out, voice scalding. "Both his wife and unborn child were kidnapped and enslaved by the Legion."

"And he's First Recon. Formerly. Going back now," Cassidy groaned, rubbing her temple. "Khans are a touchy topic for them."

John sent her a quizzical look, to which Cassidy waved a hand in dismissal. "I'll tell you about Bitter Springs some other day. Or who knows, maybe he will."

"Yeah. No," Veronica deadpanned, studying the sniper's broad back from a distance. The full moon was a bright orb in the sky, illuminating the desert like daylight. "So… what happened, you know, to his family?"

John closed his eyes, Jeannie May sneering façade flickering in front of his mind eye.

"… I think he got to them before they crossed the Colorado."

"Oh, so it ended well after all."

"No, it didn't."

Boone was by now a blurry man-shaped shadow on the road. Behind them, the mooing of brahmins and the onset of a night of drunken revelry cut through a moment of awkward silence that draped over the trio.

Veronica arched an eyebrow. "So, what are we waiting for? Time's a wasting."

John looked on, confused. Cassidy came to the rescue, giving a meaningful look over Veronica's shoulder at the Trading Post.

"Aren't you going back home to, you know…" she trailed off, looking away briefly.

"Oh, I will. At some point," Veronica added as an afterthought, adjusting the strap to her bag on one shoulder. "But I don't really feel like settling down right now, not when I haven't seen Vegas' beauties yet."

John choked on his spittle again, and proceeded to pound his chest with his right fist. Cassidy and Veronica rolled their eyes nearly in unison.

"Besides, I always wanted to meet the Followers, and I hear their main hub is in Freeside."

"Yeah, the Old Mormon Fort." A small, honest smile tentatively spread on Cassidy's face, giving some colour back to it. John could only puzzle at why. "I can take you there when we get to the gates."

"You would? Terrific! What are we waiting for?"

0 * MiA * 0

The campfire cracked and popped merrily in its circle of stones, throwing sparks and heat at John's hovering hands.

Veronica squatted opposite to him, a cloth spread across her stretched leg and her cowl thrown back to reveal a head full of dark hair combed in a long tress. She went through the components of her Power Fist one at a time with an oiled rag, humming a tune under her breath as she slowly reassembled the mechanical gauntlet in her lap.

The fire annulled his night vision, enough that he could barely make out Boone behind the scorched remains of a four-wheeled cart, and that because he knew where to look. The etched twin shotguns-and-rose of Cassidy Caravans caught his eyes from time to time in the low glow.

On the horizon, Vegas never rested and the night never truly settled: if he narrowed his eyes and leant just so, the imposing outline of the pre-war Highway stood in the distance against the onslaught of neon, floodlights and the echoes carried by the wind. Colossal pillars framed the sleepless city.

"You should go, you know?"

John emerged from his brooding to find Veronica staring up at him from her work.

"It's better if I don't. She's afraid of me."

"Perhaps she is," Veronica conceded. "But you don't want her to be alone at a time like this. Guilt makes for strange thoughts. Foolish, too."

 _'Don't I know it.'_

"Why don't you go then?"

"We've known each other for what, twelve hours? Nah, trust me, I'd do more harm than good. You, however: you two seem to go way back."

"Yeah, ten days. Two of which the Legion held us prisoners, and three I spent in a coma. There isn't one we very nearly didn't get killed one way or another."

"See, that's what I mean." Veronica huffed, then snapped a metal plate into place over an ensemble of wires with a satisfying click. "You don't need to speak, just be there. If she wants to talk, she will, and you'll only have to listen. Easy enough, right?"

Five crosses were arranged in a line, the ground barely showing any sign of upheaval. Cass didn't sit, as much as she sprawled, propped up on arms bared to the elbows, the epicenter of a forest of brown and green glass.

John sat carefully a small distance away, though she gave no sign of noticing his presence. Silence descended easily so far from the fire, and unerringly his thoughts run back to another night: a hill, freshly covered graves, a bottle passed along in mutual self-deprecation and Vegas, always shining on the horizon.

He bit on his cheek and forcefully relegated those memories away. _'Not now. She's not… she's not Sunny. She deserves better.'_

It took some more liquid convincing for Cass to break the silence. Distantly, he was amazed at how little she slurred. But there were enough bottles scattered around to probably kill a deathclaw, much less waste an single woman. And she didn't stop drinking.

"Y'know, Mahpee would've hated that cross. Not much of a good Christian, he was.

He was one of them guys, one of those tribals that still worship the sun or the earth, whatever have you. Sooner burned booze to his spirits rather'an get wasted. Nevar really got it. But, heh, I don't know which one is his, so I guess he'll have to make do.

He was wimme the longest, through thick and thin. Taught me to hunt radscorpions, I taught'im how to make booze for his gods. Pretty pointless, but it was good fun. I don't think he evar found what he was lookin' for."

"What was it?" John asked, almost by reflex.

Cassidy shrugged. "Never told me."

Silence was there the next moment, and still there for minutes, stretching and hungry. The sloshing, swallowing and the clinking of glass on the ground failed to lift it.

"Ye remind me o'Garland, cowboy. He didn't torture the shit outta people, but he was one angry sonovabitch. Sooo angry. Sumthing ta do with his little brother, got himself killed off in Shady. One mean shot." She chuckled. "Meaner left hook, but weak liver. Nearly wandered off a cliff when pissed, had ta tie'im down into a cave whole night long.

I _think_ … ugh, I think he's the one ta the left. Not sure though. Fuckin' shame."

"… How's that?"

Cass burped. "Ashes, remember? Puff. Rangers didn't find much of bodies, one or two. Noooow, _that_ hat! That silly Shi hat ish Xin's, caps down. But I've tried ta figure out what belongs to who, an' it's fuckin' hard!"

She shifted to a sitting position, legs crossed, head tilted dangerously to one side.

"I think Rangers buried one of them killers in there."

"What?!"

"Heh, funny, innit? But I'm preeetty sure I only had four guys with me, and Whatshisname from Reno alon' for the ride… I can't even remembah his fuckin' name, fuckin' creep… at least he could play worth a damn. Where was I?

Uh right, Bob the murderer. I guess it's good one of'em had da decency t'die, ya know? Garland was teachin' Xin t'shoot with an ol' .22LR. Maybe t'was her, not him… got one after the others were dead an' they took their time…"

"Cass… there's only five graves."

"Uhuh. T'was Garland and Xin's last run. Gunna get married in Vegas, then find a home for the lil'one on da way. In Bennin' of all places. Garland the farmer, ah! Wanted _me_ t'be gudmother, can ya believe it?"

Cass crawled on her knees and grasped around for the neck of bottles: she missed a couple of times, then found her target and shook them to hear the slosh. She burped again, then staggered forward, leant heavily on one cross and rinsed the graves with long, jerky sprays of alcohol.

"Offer to the gods, Mahpee," she muttered. "Damn, can't find a match… y'think they'll look after da others too?"

She sat down there, her legs buckling under her until her cheek was squashed to the side of one of the crosses, loose hair falling on her face. John was on his feet before she touched the ground, but then remained rooted on the spot, eyes wide.

"I'm such a ugly bitch… I thought it'd be it dis time, y'know, witnesses an'all dat. No matter if t'was a rumour two years old: I thought I'd find'im, find sumthing. Ye told me to let da dead lie so many times…"

"Cass."

"So many fuckin' times…"

"Cass, put it down."

The barrel gleamed black and grey, and she stared at it as if seeing it for the first time. Then she snorted. "What does it matter? I couldn't find me father, sent me people t'die like dogs! T'is only fair."

"Cass, don't."

"What d'ya fuckin' care?" She was half shouting now. John swallowed, his tongue flapping like a dead, dried up snail.

"Don't… don't you want to find who did this?"

She snorted again and her forehead thumped on the cross, her eyelids drooping. John lowered on his knees, muscles coiled to spring, mind doing mad math that sounded more and more like prayers.

"An'what, outdrink'em t'death? Ask da fuckin' NCR t'deal with them? I'm not ye, John. I don't shrug off bullets or stand up to a dozen Legion bastards on me own."

"Then I'll find them for you," he blurted out, taking a step forward. The words kept coming, his entire focus on her index and how far it was from the trigger. "Or we'll find them, and I'll kill them for you. Tie them like cattle for you to do what you want, just… put the gun down Cass, alright? Please."

"… Your an arsehole, John Doe."

John took a breath, then another. Her grip slackened, then the gun slid from her lap, painstakingly slow, and landed in the dirt.

"Cass?"

Soft snoring answered him. John blinked, then the breath he didn't realize he was holding blew out in one exhale. Belatedly, he noticed the sting: his hands were fisted into balls so tight, his joints ached.

"I'll be damned…"

Veronica said nothing as he tucked her into his sleeping bag, propped on one side by his bag should she start puking in her sleep. They just exchanged a nod, then John retraced his steps, gathered the empty bottles and corked shut what few weren't. An empty syringe glinted in the moonlight at the base of a cross and John dropped it with the rest of the garbage in a depression in the ground some distance away.

He sat before the graves, sipping from a bottle to have something to do with his hands more than anything else, until the moon shone just a little lower. Then he picked himself up and went to find Boone.

0 * MiA * 0

Half a mile north, a single tire track cut through the dirt and debris of Vegas in a straight line, blowing up small billows of dust. It found a duo of Fiends sharing Psycho and binoculars flat on their belly in the hollowed skeleton of an apartment block, their mutters a butchered mix of English, Spanish and two hundred years of street neologisms.

Tiles cracked, the air shimmered with burning ozone and three-pronged claws closed around their grimy necks. Sharp cracks bounced against the crumbling walls, then the Securitron dropped the two corpses where he found them moments before.

The central TV box buzzed with static, then the cartoonish picture of a soldier, helmet low on his brow and bearded chin jutting out, steadied. Another shimmer rippled the air, and the tire track left the building to return to the desert.

0 = MiA = 0

 _Yes, I'm upping the game for everyone, but only with stuff that makes actual sense. Half of what the Platinum Chip is supposed to be, well, doesn't to me._

 _I've tried to keep the visual depiction of the potentially most troubling content to a minimum, though I don't know how much better it is to leave the readers to imagine it._

 _About the characters, especially Veronica, they may sound a bit OoC. Most of it is due to the AU elements that touch the NCR and BoS. And before anyone starts, no, I'm not trying to depict Cass as a blushing princess needing to be saved. Far from it. But it always bothered me a lot how little impact the death of her employees and friends had on Cass in game. Most of the focus was on the Caravan as Cassidy Caravan, not really the people. Which tells me that Cass is quite selfish and you know, I'm perfectly fine with that._

 _The ball starts rolling. We've officially entered the final segment of Arc I. **Feedback** would be very much appreciated._


	13. 11) Abre Los Ojos

**Chapter 11: Abre Los Ojos**

 _My thanks to_ _ **Beslias**_ _,_ _ **Aegon Blacksteel**_ _,_ _ **partevoli,**_ _ **DocMarten2525**_ _,_ _ **Designation A1-13**_ _for their reviews and continued support._

 _Remember last chapter's warning. Not the one on disturbing sequences._

0 = MiA = 0

The bodies were cold and stiff despite the sun's mild morning glare, their necks snapped and the muscles torn, shredded by inhuman strength. The stench of urine and body waste was acute and permeating, but only Cass kept a way back, her face the perpetual frown of someone fighting a headache.

 _'So she can get a hangover too.'_

John brought his attention back at the corpses. "Whoever did this, they didn't care for their gear." The RCW was light in his hands, the hollowed-out frame of a Tommy Gun patched around some second hand lenses and a feeder to make for the approximation of a DEW. Still good enough to shred through armor, from what he recalled. Fritz's absence ached all the more keenly. "How come these druggies wield this kind of hardware anyway?"

Veronica shrugged, an Electron Pack held between her thumb and index to check the residual charge. Satisfied, she tossed it into the awaiting mouth of a duffel, where it disappeared with the rest of the loot.

"A mystery for the ages. Maybe they found some pre-nuka-hell stash, or raided one too many Van Graffs' caravans?"

Cass's snort reached them, as did her wince. "Nobody raids the Van Graffs' caravans. Say they succeed? Any survivors would be worse off than these guys by the end of the month." She tilted the muzzle of her shotgun at the two dead Fiends to stress her point. "The Reno Families don't fuck around."

"Charming people," John said, not disapprovingly.

"Don't tell them that. They're only ones who'll buy that stuff in a hundred miles."

John weighed the RCWs and turned them around, first one and then the other. A frown progressively dug into his brow. "Don't know if it's worth the trip. This stuff is in piss-poor condition." Still, if he salvaged one for parts, maybe he could improve the other to market standards…

 _'Might be worth a pretty penny yet.'_

"Oh, I can give then a look when we break for lunch," Veronica hummed, rising to her feet and dusting her pants of Mojave soil and debris. "I'm sure there's something I can do."

John stuffed the RCWs into the open duffel and shouldered it beside his pack, shifting the Marlin on his other shoulder for easy reach.

The crunch of gravel and rolling pebbles announced Boone's return.

"You know much of energy weaponry?" he asked.

Veronica shrugged, popping a stiff joint in her back. "A thing or two. After Stenton bought his beloved rifle," she stressed that with a roll of her eyes," I had to learn. Sten-boy would probably blow himself up with an energy cell sooner or later."

For a moment, there was silence. The next, it was still there, the mirrored glare of Boone's shades, more familiar than the man's narrow eyes, not budging from Veronica's bemused expression.

"Hello?"

The sniper grunted and turned away.

"There's tire tracks approaching the building from the south. They leave north, towards Vegas."

"Bikes?" John asked, but Boone shook his head. John considered it: he'd heard no engines revving throughout his shift, and the two Fiends had been dead for a while already.

"Too shallow and uniform, even for a smaller model. It was a Securitron."

 _'Victor,'_ was John's first and second thought. _'But why so far from Vegas?'_

The same question hung unvoiced and unanswered between the four of them for long moments, the early morning breeze licking at the ends of Veronica's scarf and John's vest.

As they hit the road again, John couldn't shake off the feeling he was being watched.

0 * MiA * 0

The outskirts of Vegas emerged seamlessly from the desert despite their bulk. One moment, Highway 95 coasted through dusty plains, the odd rundown structure or scratched advertisement board breaking the monotony. The next, hollow windows and ruins of wood, metal and concrete held dominion over the wastes, tricking the eye with lingering shadows, bending corners and rubble-strewn side-roads promising ambush and danger.

Tumbledown single houses and blocks alike bore down on the Highway, pressing and distressing, a dead, chaotic jungle of pre-War overpopulation and forgotten prosperity. Bridges spanned across every odd mile, wide enough for four vehicles to drive through, torn advertisements and signs hanging and rattling above their heads. In their shadow sandbags, flags and shacks marked NCR checkpoints, but even those were quickly lost to the city once left behind.

"South Vegas," Cass announced sourly. "Also known as the Fiends' Firing Range."

"Not on this side of the I-15," Boone said. "Those two were stragglers. Scouts for the gangs. Slipped the long way through the sewers. It happens."

"Tell that to all the people buried by the side of this road. Or those who _live_ in the sewers."

John glanced at her from his position in the rear. Her back was as stiff as a log, her shoulders slouching every now and then only to straighten again. The rim of the hat had been low on her face for most of the morning; now, it was tilted back, revealing bloodshot grey eyes and darker bags than the day before.

She hadn't mentioned what had almost happened by the graves upon waking up, nor what had been said the night before when she crawled out of his sleeping bag that morning. John hadn't brought it up either, but there was no denying he'd been mulling over it as the heat increased and the hours bled by.

The roads were far from abandoned though. Pack brahmin struggled under the weight of the goods piled on their backs or pulling carts as they advanced with steady steps up and down the lanes, the lifelines of Vegas escorted by caravan guards and NCR patrols alike. John peered at young faces and hollow eyes under standard helmets, their chatter minimal and silenced harshly by officers and other soldiers alike, index itching inside the trigger guards of their rifles.

The beating heart of the NCR in the Mojave neared with every step, and yet few seemed reassured by the notion.

Boone's reassurances too sounded kind of hollow in the face of what was before his eyes and the distant, bursting staccato of gunfire echoing deeper into the ruins on the west. There, the remains of broken complexes towered above the lower roofs like mangled digits, lighting up every odd minute with bursts of laser fire.

Midday came and went in the parking lot of the Aerotech Office Park, an old world name poorly fitting another NCR shantytown. Metal plates welded together and chipped concrete blocks reinforced a perimeter pockmarked by laser burns and boarded windows, but those signs weren't enough to discourage the proliferation of the shacks and makeshift shelters piling up against the walls. Scrap, cloth and boards had come together into ramshackle structures that didn't look like they'd stand up to a good push, but John couldn't shake off the impression of dozens of eyes on him, though the activity in and out the refuges was minimal.

"Don't leave this area," Cass recommended as she heated two cans of pork and beans over an electric stove. She jabbed her thumb at one of the many soldiers milling about, their rifles more worn than the hands holding them. "The army boys keep the residents at bay, but if you try and make your way to the main entrance without escort, or even step too far to take a leak, chances are you'll get mugged."

Veronica nodded absently, tongue sticking out as she reworked the inner mechanisms and power lines of one of the RCWs. John shifted his focus from her work to Cass and frowned, not really impressed by the possibility, rather puzzled at the conflicting information.

"What is this, another prison? Didn't the NCR take the children from Novac here?"

"Oh, they did. This is a NCR run charity outfit."

"You're kidding me."

She glared at him over the can she handed him, the meal inside sludgy and thick as tar. John started wolfing it down nonetheless, both ears to the conversation.

"Like hell I am. Don't come whimpering back when you have a knife or three in your kidney."

Veronica set one of the RCWs by the side and picked the other one up, mumbling under her breath about burned power lines and sloppy maintenance.

"And they took the children here, of all places?" John asked once his stomach was warm with sludge, peering over his shoulders at the shantytown, searching for covert signs of movement. He caught glimpses of soldiers doing much of the same.

"It's different on the inside," Cass said over a spoonful of pork, grimacing as she swallowed. "That's where the children and the refugees are."

Boone nodded, his attention probably somewhere over John's shoulder. An half-finished bottle of salsaparilla dangled between his thumb and index.

"The NCR provided food and water for free to those who'd lost everything in Vegas, and orphans. After the Legion crossed the Colorado at Cottonwood, however, everyone else but the children was moved out to give space to the refugees." He took a swig. "They didn't take it well."

"So they're left out to starve?" John asked. "Seems a sure-fire way to spark a revolt."

Boone sighed wearily. "Hardly, but there isn't enough food to hand around to everyone. Some have relocated to the Squatters in Freeside, Westside, or even North Vegas and the sewers. Many have not, or will not."

"They could go back home, or find a work to pay for it," Veronica offered. She produced a pair of tweezers from her robe and carefully plucked at knotted wires in the frame of the second RCW.

"A monorail ticket ain't exactly cheap," Cass said, poking at her sludge with disinterest and a rather sick look before putting it back on the stove. "And the caravans don't charge that much less all in all. Work? Ah. Freeside has made unemployment its local anthem, and the Sharecroppers Farms are a complete loss. You'll see for yourself later." She shrugged. "Things will probably get better when - if the military kicks the Legion out of Nelson and Cottonwood."

John continued to observe the shantytown for threats. A couple of soldiers detached from the perimeter guarding the courtyard and ventured into the maze of thumbed-together buildings. "If they don't get worse before that comes to pass."

It wasn't long before everyone's belly was relatively full and the NCR officer in charge cleared them for the road. Like when they stopped half an hours before, Boone just showed him a piece of paper, and they were through. At the intersection leading back into the Highway, however, the sniper halted.

"McCarran is that way. I better get going."

Hands were shaken, but Boone held his grasp for longer than the others, searching his face for something.

"Boone? This is getting awkward."

"Right," Boone said. John could have sworn the sniper was studying Veronica, but the shades made it always difficult to tell. "You've helped the NCR in Novac and Primm. Major Dhatri or Colonel Hsu at McCarran would let you board the monorail into the Strip, if you asked. Bypass the Freeside gangs and the money check."

John paused, trying to put a finger on the itching at the base of his skull.

"I thought that was for NCR citizens only." ' _That's what he said.'_

"Mostly. Not entirely. And you could make a request for citizenship at McCarran as well. Or later, at the NCR embassy."

It was tempting, he couldn't deny it. Half a day, and he could be at Benny's doorstep. Cass had mentioned a method or two to clear the caps check at the Strips gate if the RCWs' sale didn't bring in enough, something about passports and greasing. That sounded time-consuming, probably illegal and likely prone to incur in more delays than he could stomach.

Yet why was Boone trying to crush his right hand? Why did he feel the weight of the man's gaze on him? Was it intimidation?

Then Boone's index tapped into John's hand.

 _Dash. Dot. Dash. Dash. Dash._

John's eyes widened a fraction as he recognized the Morse Code.

 _No_.

Boone finally broke the handshake. It took all of John's control to shrug and jerkily point a thumb over his shoulder at Cass and Veronica.

"Thanks for the offer, but I can't really let two ladies walk into Freeside alone after everything you've told me about the place."

He could almost hear Cass's eye roll, but that didn't really matter. Boone stepped back and gave him a curt nod, then started down the road towards the airport John could just make out in the distance, for nothing else but the great spans of empty land surrounding it.

"Come on, Casanova," Veronica called out. "These ladies are waiting."

"Ladies my ass," Cass muttered, but John didn't miss the suspicious look she shot him. Veronica seemed obvious, or maybe she just hid her cards better, but if Cass had noticed something, anything wrong with their little exchange…

Had their tails noticed as well?

0 * MiA * 0

The apartment was dusty, ravaged by two centuries of ransacking, like a thousand others she'd seen and lived in the past. The Ranger lay flat on her belly, a scope pressed against the lenses of her riot helmet. From her position, the sun wouldn't reveal her position to anyone on the road many levels below.

Barely shifting, she switched on the radio set built into her helmet.

"Ranger Tanner to Iron Command. Do you copy, Command?"

"Command here. Clear copy Tanner. Granite speaking."

"Sir. The Butcher continues on to Freeside. Should get there well before nightfall."

"Shame… Any chance Sgt. Boone clued him in? He may feel he still owes the Butcher a debt."

"Can't exclude it, sir. Orders?"

"Abort for now, we know where he's going. Return to McCarran and prepare to assist Lt. Boyle with debriefing the Sergeant."

"Roger, sir. What about the target?"

"Our local assets will assist him, discreetly. Anyone who's caught Not-At-Home's interest cannot be ignored. Even if he wasn't what Ranger Garrett thinks he is."

"Garrett will call in tonight for a report, sir."

"I'll have Hildern prepare something for you to say. Take care, Tanner. Granite, out."

0 * MiA * 0

The better part of the afternoon and some of the apprehension were behind them by the time they crossed the open gates into Freeside.

"Mind your purses," Cass muttered. Then the city engulfed them.

The first thing John noticed about Freeside wasn't the dirt, the dilapidation or the faint echoes of gunfire. The abandoned city outside Freeside's walls had that in spades and more.

No, what nailed him was the strumming of a bass guitar and strings wafting out of a once-shop just beside the gates, and the several lookalikes singing and clapping along in a circle at the front door, greasy hair stuck into the very same hairstyle. That they were all armed went without saying.

 _"Why can't you see_

 _What you're doing to me_

 _When you don't believe a word I say?_

John stopped to listen, a wedge in the flow of walkers. As the song went on, more voices joined in with the catchy lead singer he couldn't see.

 _We can't go on together_

 _With suspicious minds_

 _And we can't build our dreams_

 _On suspicious minds."_

"Yeah, the Kings can make that impression," Cass said, her boot tapping along. "Now we better get a move on, before -"

"Ehi ladies, need some professional escort? Freeside is a mighty dangerous place for newcomers, you dig me?"

John blinked at the King who'd just popped out of the crowd like a mushroom and now stood in front of them, a very noticeable H&K 10mm hanging at his hip.

Cass actually smiled. John blinked again. "No, we're set, thank you." She patted her Remington and tilted her head at the small armory on John. "I think this is more than enough."

The King's smile dimmed, then he shrugged. "Suit yourself. Oh, and remember: the King's Blue Suede Chapel has the best beds and grub in all of Freeside."

Cass smiled again, stiff and wide and fake, then she pulled John away. "We'll make sure to drop by. Be seeing you!" And with that, John was dragged into the flow of pedestrians again.

As the music faded to a wordless, humming buzz, so did the jovial first impression that nearly shattered John's assumptions, derived from what Cass and Boone told him.

The derelicts, junkies and destitute drifted to the sides of a crowd only in slighter better conditions, clogging the sidewalks and begging for caps, food, or a fix. Others, men and women alike in dirty, skimpy clothes and elbows reddened by needle marks, offered their services to anyone who so much as deigned to look at them, a mix of begging and allure that left John's stomach cramping.

Children and gaunt teens waded in and out, chasing rats, each other or acting overtly inconspicuous, their hands stuffed deep into their rags or in someone else's pocket. Their targets were tourists and businessmen, more distinctive by the number of guards and hardware around them than their clothes. The majority of those security professionals looked and talked like Kings, but after a while it seemed to John that carrying at least one big enough gun, or an ostentatious piece of armour, was enough to qualify anyone for the job.

Veronica piped up as they approached a large crossroads, "So, Cass. What was that about back there?"

Cass shrugged. "Paying respect to the alpha dogs in Freeside, and avoiding a fair bit of leeching."

"Those guys?" John quirked an eyebrow, the image of Kings clapping along in nothing more that blue jeans and white shirts still vivid in his mind's eye. "Those 'hip and cool' guys are the leading gang in Freeside?"

"And the closest thing to any form of recognized authority with the outside world, together with the Followers, yes," Cass added. "Besides, everyone loves the Followers here, and the two groups work real close, so some of it rubs on them. Doesn't hurt that they're decent, 'for the people' guys too." She made a face. "Well, most of the time."

"Excuse me if I find that hard to believe it," John said. "That little charade at the gate looked kinda like extortion."

"Must you always see the worst in people, John? Bodyguard duty is one of the few big revenues out here that doesn't deal with chems, gamblin', prostitution or slavery," Cass huffed. "And the Blue Suede Chapel is a decent place to crash. May not be the Atomic Wrangler, but that's square in Van Graffs' territory. And things are way worse in that corner of town."

John rolled his eyes. Veronica snickered.

"What?" Cass and John asked at the same time.

"Nothing." But the smirk didn't fade from her lips for quite a while.

0 * MiA * 0

They split up at the Vegas Boulevard after agreeing to meet later at the Blue Suede Chapel for dinner and rest. John would have preferred to proceed immediately for the Strip, its lights beckoning him forward at the end of the Boulevard, but Boone's words stuck. It wouldn't do to go unprepared. Beside, whoever Mick&Ralph were, they'd need time to arrange for John's passport even after they paid them a visit, for which it was already too late anyway.

 _'Definitely forgery.'_

As Cass and Veronica made for the Old Mormon Fort, John began hiking up the Vegas Boulevard, one hand on his purse, the other close to Sunny and Cass' directions firm in mind.

Freeside's appearance kept consistent with a trend he'd noticed while hiking through South Vegas. Wear and time, rather than bomb blasts, were the main actors behind the decay and overall abject conditions nearly every structure found itself in. Only, walking through the garbage-littered streets of Freeside, the impression was much stronger.

Panes still graced windows, yet most were broken and shattered, leaving sharp tongues of glass jutting out rather than black emptiness. The paint on the walls was chipped and eroded with rain and wind as much as it was covered in the elaborate language of graffiti, another form of war where guns and knives were replaced by colour and design, at least at first.

Roofs were caved in, yes, but most buildings still stood strong, their walls solid, if cracked. Nothing of the sort would remain had Vegas been bombed at the onset of the Great War. And by every right, from the mere shadow that remained of what it must have been once, the city should have been one huge radioactive crater.

 _'Then why? How?'_

Why was he even asking himself such questions? Where did he even draw comparison from, to know what should or shouldn't have happened centuries before?

And how could Vegas still stand?

John glanced up at the glowing spire of the Lucky 38 Casino, impossible to miss from the moment he'd spotted Vegas in the distance.

 _"House has plasma cannons on his roof,"_ Boone had said.

The distant bark of guns wrenched him out of his thoughts. Around him, the perpetual motion of Freeside paused, only to resume moments later when the threat was judged well out of range.

0 * MiA * 0

The two group engaged in a glaring contest of posturing from opposite ends of the road made it difficult to miss where the Kings' territory ended, and the Van Graffs' began. A single look also left little doubt who'd come out on top the moment the guns came out, but John had to give the Kings credit for trying.

Or maybe not. Blue jeans, tight shirts and leather jackets looked stylish, but combat armour meant actual protection from most of the 10mm guns the lookalike gang favorited. There was little stopping lasers and plasma with clothes and hair gel, however.

The moment he passed the line of sandbags, eyes started tracking his movements. The persistent itch at the nape of his skull told him as much. John kept going, wading through a clean, dusted main alleyway with shops open on both sides, shouters in the streets advertising goods of all sorts and proper glass paneling the street-windows.

Then he caught a glimpse of the first side street, of the carpets of human desperation clinging to the shadows and dirt, and any first impression of civilization shimmered out of existence.

He made his ways past hookers flaunting their bodies, kids promoting casinos and chem shops and the odd thug in black combat armor until most of the alley was behind him and he stood at another crossroads, the bustle of the Atomic Wrangler Casino deafening on his right. He went left.

Two thugs in what was clearly Van Graffs livery stopped him at the doors. Five minutes later, completely unarmed but for the empty RCWs in his hands, a bundle of Electron Packs and a combat knife in a sheathe between his shoulder blades, John walked into the Silver Rush.

And promptly became witness to an execution. By incineration.

A dark skinned woman with a near bald head and an outfit verging more on the practical than the classy leaned forward on a counter covered with nearly every kind of energy weapon imaginable, a thin cigarette held between her fingers.

"This was a lesson in faith, Mr. Soren," she said to the boggling well-dressed man. He looked like a fish out of water in the middle of half a dozen Van Graff thugs. "My former employee -" she gestured at the smoking pile of ashes scattered among naked manikins, still glowing faintly." - he broke faith with the Van Graffs. I trust the lesson has been learned?"

"I-it has, Miss Gloria."

"Good," she said, pleased. "Then I expect our payment to be ready by tomorrow morning. Jean Baptiste will come to collect." One of the thugs, better groomed and armed than the rest, hefted a whirring plasma rifle to stress the point. "Good evening, Mr. Soren."

John quickly stepped aside as the man all but fled out of the armory, the doors rattling behind him.

"Alright everyone, show's over! Prepare for closing time."

The thug leader, Jean Baptiste, chuckled. "We have another client, sis'."

Gloria Van Graff sent an annoyed look at her brother, but when she addressed John her face only showed distant cordiality.

"Welcome to the Silver Rush, mister?"

"Doe. John Doe. I'm here to sell."

"Points for imagination," Jean Baptiste said. Yet there was little humour in his voice, rather a light in his eyes, an instinctual readiness to his movements. The men all over the shops might be thugs with spiffy gear, but John recognized a fighter when he saw one. Boone and Granite had a similar air around them.

"Jean Baptiste, go over to the Wrangler. We can close shop without you, thank you."

The man walked away, shaking his head. A couple of thugs fell in step behind him at Gloria's silent command, then her attention returned to him, and the guns now between them on the counter.

"Rapid Capacitor Weapons. A chance encounter with Fiends, Mr. Doe? They aren't known for well-maintaining their gear."

"Open them, then. I took care of the worst of it." Technically, Veronica had, but only because, unlike him, she obviously had fun tinkering with the things, no matter her grumbling.

Gloria Van Graff's hands operated with the assured precision of a professional. Despite the hour growing late, she also took her time going over both weapons, an appreciative look on her face.

"It seems you did, Mr. Doe." _'Here it comes.'_ "Seven-hundred caps."

 _'Stick by what Cass said.'_

"One thousand-two-hundred."

An elegant eyebrow arched in amusement. "This is not a negotiation, Mr. Doe. Nobody else in Freeside will take these off your hands. Take seven-hundred, or walk out."

 _'Steady now.'_ "Nobody in the Kings' territory or yours, maybe."

A chuckle, light and predatory. John could hear the hands already reaching for their guns. "I assume you are new to Freeside, Mr. Doe. Which is why I won't have you thrown out naked, and instead offer you seven-hundred caps for the last time."

 _"Remember John. One passport, five hundred caps. Don't settle for less than a thousand."_

John's inside twisted into knots in self-disgust, but Cass's word kept him on track. He'd come prepared to use that one card, so he leaned forward on one hand, keeping eye contact, and gave her the thinnest, most vicious smile he could muster.

"And I assume _you_ , Ms. Van Graff, didn't recognize the Butcher."

The startled murmur behind him was all he needed to know that the rumor had spread as far north as Vegas while he dallied in Novac. If that was enough to impress Gloria Van Graff, however, of that John wasn't sure.

She chuckled, but the mirth didn't warm her eyes.

"You come to my shop, unarmed and surrounded by my men, and you threaten me?"

"Eddie and his lieutenants had plasma guns as well."

John was vaguely aware that, reputation as a wild card or not, he was digging a deeper hole under his feet with every word. Truth was, he had no idea how he'd fare against energy fire, and this time it was not mutants holding the guns. He had no idea about a lot of things.

Maybe he hadn't taken Boone's words so much at heart.

 _'In for a penny, in for a pound.'_

Gloria shook her head and pulled from her cigarette, which was nearly a burned stub now.

"I like a man with balls, Mr. Doe. Empty posturing is so readily available, sometimes it's easy to forget it's not the real thing. Can I interest you with a proposition?"

 _'Take time,'_ the cautious voice in his head urged.

"I'm listening."

When she sighed, somewhat pleased, he knew he'd just passed a test.

"Work for me. You have potential, and a spot has recently opened in my roster." She tilted her head to point over his shoulder.

"Thank you, but no. I'm here on business only."

She grimaced and snubbed the cigarette butt into an overflowing ashtray. "A pity. You still have a little time to reconsider. Now, let's meet in the middle. Mick&Ralph should still charge five hundred a piece."

"Deal," John said, a bit too quickly. Gloria Van Graff nearly rolled her eyes. John looked around, and then took a wild chance on the spur of the moment. "Say, you wouldn't have a MicroFusion Hyperbreeder Beta rifle model in stock, would you? Or know who would make them outside the Mojave."

Gloria's fingers stopped as she typed the receipt on the cashier. "My Family deals with all types of DEWs, Mr. Doe. I'm not familiar with the model however. Any specifics?"

"About this length. Comes with three fire modes: single shot, triple shot and auto-fire." _'And engravings.'_ "Solid structure, with few finicky components. Could double as a club if need be."

"We don't possess anything that meets your specifics, but we have quite a few Recharger Pistols in stock." She casually picked up one from the display counter, all blocky chrome and humming breeder.

"Ah," John said around his disappointment. If the premiere dealers in the region knew nothing about it… "Never mind, I was just curious."

The front door opened then, but nobody came in. Then the caps exchanged hands: John didn't bother to count them, pretty sure that the Van Graffs didn't need to peel off a handful from a routine transaction to make a profit, then bid his farewells.

He felt Gloria's eyes on him every step of the way to the door.

Outside, night had fallen, though the glow from the Strip's casinos had risen up to the challenge. The door guard handed him back his weapons, and John walked away from the Silver Rush, one eye never leaving the top of the Lucky 38.

 _'Not-at-Home or not, you'll answer for Victor.'_

0 * MiA * 0

The Silver Rush's front door swung open, crashing into the opposite wall. A plasma rifle barged in, followed by the man holding it and two more, all donning the same dark suits of combat armour.

"Where is he?!"

"By now? Back in Kings' territory, I reckon."

"Goddamnit, sis'! Why did you let him go?"

"For the same reason Simon found you balls deep into of the Garrett's two-caps whores: I didn't expect him to waltz in here. Not for him to be the Butcher of all people."

"That two-bit ganger justice warrior? Easy peasy."

"Jean Baptiste, shut it! We don't need a war with the Kings right now."

"Then start putting the charms on Pacer or the big man, sis'. You fucked up, now I need to make gold out of this mess. The messenger was clear: the Good Man wants information before we strike the deal. I'm taking a few of the boys to catch him right now. And gimme that fucking rifle!"

0 * MiA * 0

The Blue Suede Chapel turned out to be a large, art deco like complex just on the other side of the road from the King's School of Impersonation; even at night and traipsing that part of town for the first time, the sheer concentration of Kings milling in between and the two big neon signs, one sporting the silhouette of a dancing man with a guitar, the other a church shining with blue lights, made the establishment quite hard to miss.

John arched an eyebrow when Cass picked herself up from one of the benches in front of the hotel and approached him in long strides.

"Thank God. How did it go?"

John patted his vest above the inner pocket holding the caps. "Dealt and done with. What is it, you missed me?"

Cass rolled her eyes and punched him in the shoulder. "Yeah, you wish. It's Veronica. She picked up a… well, let's call her a lady friend at the Followers'. Things were gettin' pretty awkward inside. Needed a breath of fresh air."

"Well…" John hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. "She sure works fast."

"You tell me. I thought she was puttin' the moves on _me_ before she met _her_."

"What, you jealous?"

"Fuck you, cowboy."

John blinked at the sharp comeback, then shrugged and moved around her, wading through the nearly empty table to reach for the front door. His stomach was grumbling.

"Come on, I'm getting hungry. We can just take another table and leave Veronica to her wooing."

"John."

He stopped. Cass was glancing about, as if to check for eavesdroppers, one hand thumbing the brim of hat.

"Sorry. Look, it's… I don't remember much 'bout last night, but I think I'd have done some real stupid shit. So, you know, thanks."

His hand rested on the door knob. "You gave me a good scare there. Just leave the real stupid shit to the professionals from now on, okay? Can't have you owing me more than I owe you."

She rolled her eyes, but her chuckle was rueful and honest. "Won't make any promises."

0 * MiA * 0

The Chapel's mess hall was alive with guitars and drums playing in a lively tune when John and Cass made their way in. The King ganger at the microphone kept well above the music, a southern accented voice singing the dinner away.

 _"Well, you can knock me down_

 _Step in my face_

 _Slander my name_

 _All over the place_

 _Do anything you that you want to do_

 _But uh-uh, honey_

 _Lay off of my shoes_

 _Don't you step on my blue suede shoes_

 _Well, you can do anything_

 _But stay off of my blue suede shoes"_

"A nice place to crash?!" John half-shouted over the song. Cass shrugged.

"It's only the pre-dinner show! Let's look for a table!"

Despite the overbearing nature of it, John chuckled as he stopped and spent a few more moments looking at the Kings on the stage, sweat matting their brows and smirks plastered all over their faces.

 _"At least they're having fun.'_

John's eyes strayed and fell on Veronica of all people, half standing from her seat and waving her arms about. She had her scarf down again, her thick tress of black hair tossed over her chest, but it looked like she'd been trying to catch their attention for a while.

"We should give them some privacy!" Cass said as John veered, making a path between the tables that cut the hall through in long lines.

"Ehi, she's calling for us! Maybe she was busted!"

He was wrong, of course. So wrong, he almost did a double take when he recognized who was sitting in front of Veronica.

Blond hair still in a bun, her combat armour and full kit on, her vise grip was as steely as he remembered it.

"John. I had a feeling we'd meet again!"

"Sarah. Good to see you again!"

The Kings brought their number to a close in a smattering of applause and the dinner bell rung. Waiters in clean - or at least _cleaner_ \- everyday clothes walked down the lines of mess tables, wheeling big pots of steaming mystery gruel, pocketing a few caps for each bowl served.

Veronica and Cass didn't pay it much attention. John almost blinked at the intensity of their scrutiny.

"The two of you know each other?" Cass started.

Sarah chuckled, surprising him. "Since Primm, we took on the Powder Gangers together. How long ago was it John, a week? It feels like more."

"Yeah. It does," John nodded, a painful grimace spreading across his face. The faces of the people he failed rolled out from the back of his mind, Sarah's presence jostling memories.

Trudy, Pete, Chet. Beagle, Nora, Fortuna and Delilah. All the people of Goodsprings, Nipton and Novac whose names he didn't even know. Sunny.

The list was too fucking long already.

Sarah's warm hand pressed down on his clenched fist, and John's eyes zeroed into focus again.

"I heard about your friend when I passed through Primm again. I'm sorry."

"Thanks." John took a shuddering breath. "No, it's alright. What are you doing here anyway?

"In Freeside? Work, of course. Right now?" She accepted a bowl of gruel and handed over a handful of caps. Then she grinned at Veronica. "I'd say I'm enjoying dinner."

"Sarah works for the Mojave Express," Veronica offered between spoonfuls.

"Knew that," John mumbled, then swallowed. "So, you found your missing courier?"

"I wish. I even walked a stretch down the I-15 into California from the Outpost before doubling back here, but nobody has seen my missing Follower. Had little luck at the Mormon Fort too, everyone's quite tight-lipped. I think Julie Farkas's starting to hate me."

"Nah, Julie is great," Veronica said, waving her spoon in eloquent swirls. "I barely met her, and I can tell you that much. She'd never hate you. Maybe get a tiny bit annoyed."

"Wait a sec," Cass piped up. "How did you get here before us? I didn't see you in Novac."

Sarah arched an eyebrow, as if taken aback by the question. "I took the I-15. Cuts a long leg of the journey."

"Bull. Quarry Junction's swarming with Deathclaws."

"I travelled alone," Sarah said with a smile, voice open and honest, "kept to the hills, and burned through almost an entire Stealth Boy. But I made the trip in three days."

 _'Fuck. No getting caught by the Legion there. Fuck.'_

The four-way conversation subsided then, everyone returning on their meal and thoughts, though Veronica kept making small talk with Sarah. _'They're calling each other names already?'_ Cass just stared into her bowl, hat heavy on her brow.

 _'Just say something. Anything.'_ "So, Lyons. What happened to the eyebot you picked up?"

"Oh, that thing? It's upstairs, playing guard dog on my - Vonnie!"

John was on his feet in a moment, Sarah already leaning, but Veronica's open palm urged them both to stop. She kept coughing, pounding her fist on the table rather than on her chest, red in the face and spitting some of the mystery soup with each hack. The din subsided marginally for a moment, several heads turning their way. Then Veronica swallowed, hard, tears in her eyes, and conversations resumed all around as if nothing had interrupted them in the first place.

"Are you alright?" Cass asked, leaning across the table, handing her a Nuka Cola.

"Ugh. I'm fine, I'm fine," Veronica mumbled. She took a couple long swigs and cleaned her mouth on the sleeve of her robe. Then she made a face and turned back to Sarah. John blinked at the sudden distant cold light in her gaze, where sunshine and sparkles glimmered only moments before.

John glanced at Cass, who shrugged. Then Veronica stood up.

"Sorry Sarah, I'm not feeling that well. Catch you tomorrow at the Fort maybe?"

Sarah smiled thinly, mirroring the other woman's motions. They stood almost to a head, Veronica a few inches taller. "More than likely. If you get any better tonight, I'll be at the Wrangler for a little down time. John, Cassidy."

Both women left, Veronica lagging slightly behind to wait for Cass to give her the key to their room, but her eyes didn't leave Sarah's retreating form. There was little longing, lust or even appreciation there though.

John began to speak, but Cass's kick to his shin made him reconsider, turning a question into a hiss. Moments later, Sarah left the Chapel, while Veronica disappeared out of the mess hall and up the stairs of the Chapel, taking the steps two at a time.

"Alright. All of _that_? What am I missing here, Cass?"

"I don't have a fuckin' clue."

0 * MiA * 0

The last thing John remembered was shifting on the thin mattress to find some measure of comfort and the ceiling stubbornly refusing to reveal its secrets and provide him with answers.

Next thing he knew, the key thudded softly on the floor, and tumblers were scraping into the lock of his room.

The gladium was in his hand by the second tick of the lock, edge sharp again after an hour on the whetstone. From the other side of the door, the faintest murmuring arose. John edged up on the wall beside the door, Sunny in his other hand.

The lock clicked open. Then another echoed it, too close.

 _'Shit.'_

"CASS!"

John kicked the door back as it inched open, then rolled on the other side, opening fire at the dark silhouette framed in the door by the Freeside light filtering in through the shut window.

Blood spurted and lasers lanced, tearing door and room alike apart amid curses. The enemy in the lead crumpled, his strings cut.

John sprung back as two more barged into the room. He crashed into the first, ceramic armour hard against him, and swung the gladium wide at the second, drawing blood and little more before inertia carried him to the ground on top, and a knee buried itself into his gut.

His world spun and he was flying back, the pavement cushioning little of his rolling landing. More curses, gunfire, a gong going off, then the click of a trigger and John threw himself to the side. Too little, too late.

The laser burned clean through his right shoulder, leaving a cauterized hole where clothe and muscle had been. Stars exploded into his vision and John's grip tightened around the blade's handle. A laser rifle hummed with charge.

He knew that sound.

"Tie him up. He comes with us."

He knew that voice. More steps, running.

"That stubborn bitch Rose of Sharon Cassidy and the other woman die here."

 _'Like hell they do.'_

The gladium flew just as the gong sounded again and the wall exploded, showering his bedroom with debris.

The speaker, Cutting, snarled in pain, the blade eating into his thigh. The man next to him found himself short a head when Veronica's Power Fist plowed right through it like a ripe fruit. John rolled back up, barreling into the back of another thug; his artificial fingers dug into the nape of the man's neck, finding his spine, then he grinned savagely as a familiar shotgun joined the orchestra.

His vision cleared with fresh, pumping adrenaline. The room was a mess, hanging lightbulbs casting on the black combat armour of what Van Graff thugs still stood. Cass dropped to one knee, her face bloody, and blasted one in the groin as Veronica shoulder checked a second in the chest, the ceramic plate cracking.

Jean Baptiste Cutting levelled Fritz at Veronica from the ground, then thrashed and howled as John's good hand closed around the gladium, tearing open his thigh to the knee, showering him and the room with arterial blood.

Then Fritz was his again and for a moment, as Veronica sent the last Van Graffs killer crashing through the window and into the street below, everything was alright.

0 * MiA * 0

Cass pulled the gauze tight around John's wounded shoulder, thumbing the corners and tying them into a knot with one last pull.

"There. How's it?"

John nodded his thanks, one hand brushing another speck of dirt from Fritz's barrel as the muscles in his other shoulder slowly knitted back together, well-hidden now. The pull and stretching was so familiar by now, he barely even noticed it. Besides, a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders the moment he lay eye and hand on his rifle, and his finger itched to verify if the link was still there. Too bad all the Van Graffs were dead, and unable to speak of their connections to the Legion.

There were also far too many Kings with jittery nerves in the near proximity to pull even an innocent stunt like that.

Veronica, her robe heavy with dust and blood and gore, stepped through another hole she'd punched into another wall, cradling something large, bulky and round in her arms under a blanket. In John's room, or what little remained of it, the Kings bustled to clean out the corpses and pillage their gear and stuff. The two corpses in Veronica and Cass's room, where the three of them now were gathered, had already been hauled out.

"I can't say life is ever dull around you two," Veronica quipped, grimacing down at her own state of filthiness, then plopped down on her own bed, opposite to John and Cass. "Of that there are enough showers. I've been in more firefights these last thirty-six hours than, well, a very long time."

"Firefights?" John asked. "You don't even shoot. You just punch people."

"You're the one to speak, Doe," Veronica shot back, then her voice lowered to a murmur. "Nameless thug #4 still has the holes of your fingers in his neck."

John pursed his lips, but it seemed the recent antics had instilled a sense of hesitancy in the Kings. Even the ones tasked to guard them kept to the door, eyeing them only long enough to make sure they weren't trying anything funny without their guns. Nobody had tried to take away Veronica's Power Fist or Fritz though.

"A question for a question then, Veronica," Cass intervened, ignoring John's glare. "What was with the drama down at dinner? And where were you all night?"

"That's more than one question."

"Tryin' to sell me they ain't related?"

Veronica huffed, leaning heavily to the ball in her lap. The blanket fell away, revealing a metal grid, folded antennas and the hint of several directional thrusters.

"That's Sarah's eyebot."

"Don't say her name!" Veronica hissed, glaring hard at him from under her scarf. John blinked. "Just don't. You don't know what it means."

"Then tell us!" Cass shot back.

"You tell me about your gun and your arm then, John. Or about why you weren't with your caravan when it was attacked, Cass."

The three of them sat only a feet away in the same room, but the atmosphere had thickened so much in the span of a minute, the air was almost solid between.

John knew he'd be at a disadvantage at that range. He'd one arm out of commission, Cass sported a fresh head wound, while Veronica was a specialist, and wore something hard enough under her robe that combat armour cracked when she checked one of the thugs in the chest.

Veronica sighed. "Look, it's your business, and I have mine. Tomorrow you two will go into the Strip, I'll go back to the Followers, and it'll be like we never crossed ways in the first place. Pinky swear?"

John shook his head. "Forget it. I can't deal with Benny if I have to watch my back at every turn."

Veronica rolled her eyes, a retort already on her lips, when several voices rose at the same time further down the corridor in a southern-accented racket. One finally emerged victorious, out-shouting the other.

"Any of youse The King? Guessed so. Go back to your posts, you stupid cats. My Gloria's little bro is dead cold, you can be sure there'll be a helluva lot to pay in the morning."

The two Kings at the door exchanged a glance, then stepped away to reveal a third in black slacks and a black light jacket, the black-and-white striped shirt underneath specked with blood and tobacco. He looked more the part of the convict than most Powder Gangers John put under. It was reason enough to immediately distrust him.

"About fuckin' time," Cass snarled, climbing out of the bed. "This was self-defense, so stop being A-league arseholes and give us back our stuff."

"Stuff it, ginger," the ganger bit out. "The Pacer ain't here to hear your whining. Kiddo!" he called over his shoulder. "Stop hiding! Get over here!"

"Whinin' you say?" she growled. "Let's see how you like when I stuff your willie down your throat, _Pacer_."

Pacer laughed, then grabbed a skinny boy covered in little more than oversized rags by the scruff of his neck and whisked a small packet from his hands.

"Combat got your fire goin' and yer boyfriend ain't man enough for you, eh ginger? The Pacer's sorry for ye, but I ain't got time to stay and _chat_ -"

Cass socked him straight in the mouth. Veronica whistled.

 _'Talk about pay respect to the alpha dogs.'_

Fritz was levelled at Pacer and his young lookalike wannabees before any other gun was clear of the holster. Veronica, for her part, only lifted the eyebot a bit higher, to shield her face.

"Guns where they belong, boys," John said, nudging at them with Fritz. "Or you think you can measure up?"

Pacer spat a fat glob of blood and something small, white and hard as Cass massaged her fist. "Damn gal, you broke my tooth! Ruined the Pacer's smile. You hit harder than half these pansies I'm saddled with. But you, Doe," all the masochistic mirth evaporated from Pacer's voice, and the eyes boring into John hardened to flint. "You better put down your gun too. You three may have done us a favor, put Cutter three feet under, but none of you ain't gonna leave the Chapel on their feet if I snap my fingers."

Cass huffed, sucking on her bleeding knuckles. After a moment, John lowered Fritz. "Alright then. What do you want."

"I'm here to help ya, you stupid cats. Here, fresh off the press." The cheap paper wrapping was torn apart, revealing three thin booklets no larger than John's palm. "Your passports into the Strip. Doe, Cassidy, Santangelo. There you go."

The passport was shoved into John's hand, brown and worn but smelling fresh over the metallic stink of blood. _'Damn Cutter's bled all over the place. And me_.' Inside, a minimized frontal picture of his stared back, at least as much as its inebriated look allowed.

"Where… where did you take this?" Veronica demanded more than she asked, holding the passport as if it burned.

"Do girls kiss and tell? No? Then don't ask the Pacer to reveal his aces."

"Keep it," Cass hissed, trying to handle hers back. "I already have one, as soon as you give us back our stuff."

"That old piece of paper?" Pacer chuckled, teeth scarlet, then hacked another glob of blood. "Shit. That's no longer worth a cap. Ink changed from blue to red three months ago. Geez, where have you been 'till now?"

"Castratin' arseholes like you."

"Touchy alright. Look, boy and girls? You're done here. Your stuff's waiting for you down the corridor. Take a shower, then scram." Pacer gave each a look, then walked out, waving over his shoulder. "You did us a favor, but one of those that bring loads of trouble about too. Get into the Strip and don't show your ugly mugs around for a bit, you dig? And maybe you won't win a trip to the sewers. The one-way only kind."

0 = MiA = 0

 _Pacer is one of those characters I didn't imagine I'd ever write more than wallflower dialogue for until I was already halfway through the last scene._

 _Thanks to everyone who's stuck so far, read and supported this story. This first Arc was slow to pick up speed, but I think we're finally getting there. The Order of Business will switch gears, I hope._

 _Next chapter, the sweet talkin' sugar coated Benny-man steps on the stage._

 _Pacer's Speech Check is an automatic win, so don't forget to write in the big shining box below. Seriously, give me some_ _ **feedback**_ _, we're way over 100k words._ _ **Do it**_ _._


	14. 12) Place your Bets, Rig the Deck

_AN: This is one of a few chapters I already had in mind before I even published the first chapter of MiA almost a year ago. Didn't save me from scrapping everything four times and rewriting most scenes from scratch before settling for this version. I'm not entirely happy with it, but it's the best I could manage._

 _Fair warning: possibly disturbing scene(s) towards the end. Or maybe not. Then again, M rating._

 _My thanks to everyone who's read, favved, and put this story on alert and to those who will. Special thanks to_ _ **Aegon Blacksteel, DocMarten2525, The Desert Dancer, Jacob Sailer, WilSquare, Partevoli**_ _and_ _ **RadioFreeDeath**_ _for their reviews and support._

 **Chapter 12: Place Your Bets, Rig the Deck.**

The locker room of the Blue Suede Chapel stank of sweat and rust, an odor Cass tasted almost as much as she smelled it. She gathered her long hair, still wet from the shower, into a short ponytail, then slid her suede jacket from the hanger and shrugged it on. Fully clothed, she plopped down on the bench behind her and picked up her hat, grimacing at the new burn holes marking it.

Behind the sliding door at the end of the aisle, John's shower was still running. She figured it probably would for a little while yet. He'd been a mess, his clothes even worse, so much the Kings had just dropped him a spare change 'before someone tossed him in the women's trash bin'. The gross comparison made her snort, but it was short-lived.

Stretching until her back complained, she grabbed John's laser rifle, Fritz, and gingerly turned the sleek, fragile gun in her hands, part of her afraid it would break if she handled it with barely any strength.

She'd last seen it before Nipton, before the Legion, only to find it aimed at her by the Van Graff head thug not an hour before. There wasn't much asking about hows, not when the connection was so plain. It horrified her and made some sort of twisted sense at the same time.

The Van Graffs had a long history of stomping toes with the NCR; now, the gun said they must have reached out to the Legion instead, or maybe the other way around. A grimace of disgust pulled at her face, stretching tired muscles. She supposed it was just business for the Family, just another title to add to their list. Mafioso. Assassins. Drug Dealers. _Slaver_ almost sounded tame in comparison.

Cass swallowed and rubbed her throat, still feeling the weight and pressure of the collar around her neck. Her whole body ached from the contusions heaped upon it in the last week, damage that was given barely any time to heal with all the running around. The cold water had helped little.

She snuck a look around, but she was alone and the shower still poured. Two of the three Med-x syringes she'd looted from the Khans remained full and undamaged, the third discarded somewhere at her Caravan's burial site. Cass rolled her sleeve up to the bicep, twisted the fabric until it worked like a lace, then plunged the small needle into the vein in her armpit with a hiss that melted away when she pushed the plunger.

Her muscles loosened almost immediately, the pain radiating from her body fading to a remote throb. Shaking her head against the mellowness, Cass removed the Med-x from her arm and flexed it closer to her chest, compressing the puncture as she cleaned the needle of blood and put the cap back on with her teeth. She'd injected only slightly more than half the dose: next time, she'd just heat the needle to sterilize it.

 _'Not that there's gonna be a next time.'_

There was no chemming out the insidious thoughts Cutting's words stirred, however.

 _"That stubborn bitch Rose of Sharon Cassidy dies here."_

Just… Why? Why _her_? How did they even know her name? Only the documents in the NCR's Office of Trade and Commerce had her full name, lost somewhere in the piles of bureaucracy. She'd never had dealings with the Van Graffs, not ever through third parties or by chance. New Reno had become a good enough place to unwind since Mr. Bishop had put an end to the Turf Wars, but trading there meant sucking up to the Families. She'd steered well away from that from the get go.

The answer came easy and without fanfare, like a puzzle piece slotting in its proper place after she a couple of attempts.

 _'Like they knew of Griffin Wares', Durable Dunn's and everyone else's.'_

The suspicion planted by McLafferty's timely offer, that nagging sense of stinking-can-of-brahmin-shit surrounding the whole caravan blockade at the Outpost, reared its ugly head. It had quelled in face of the recent cascade of events, much to her shame, yet snaked again at the front of her mind with ease and nestled there, gorging on the late Cutting's words.

Energy weapons and ashes. The cargo of booze, broken and burned to a crisp. No prisoners. She and everyone else had thought of the Legion or a particularly violent gang of Fiends, but what if…

That train of thought derailed when the locker room's door slammed open; she bolted upright, shoved the syringe in her pocket and grabbed the Remington as heavy steps rushed in at a near run. A moment later, Veronica turned the corner of the nearest line of lockers, that robot discoball in her arms, and stumbled to a halt at the muzzle levelled at her.

The robed woman looked and smelled cleaner, her robes scrubbed with enough Abraxo to make Cass's nose wrinkle. Cass barely contained her surprise at her presence: after the brunette had taken her shower first and alone, she'd quickly disappeared away with the robot. The former caravaner had figured their paths has parted for good after the thorny confrontation; she'd to admit the prospect left a bit of a sour taste.

"Oh, Cass," she gasped, looking around. Her head was bare, her long tress still a wet mess, but there was no hint of the bite from before in her voice. "You're still here, good. Where's John? I need to talk to him, both of you. Right now!"

Cass tilted her head to the showers, where the jet of the water had fallen silent. She lowered the shotgun, still wary. "He's still in. What's this about now?"

"Forget what happened before, alright ?!" Veronica snapped, waving a hand. She dropped the discoball on the nearest bench with way too much force. Cass winced. "It's crucial he listens to this!"

"Listen to what?"

The door to the showers creaked open, amplifying the tail of John's question. He walked out drying his hair with a towel, N99 and gladium already secured at his belt. A suspicious frown blackened his face.

"This," Veronica repeated, then her hands dived into the sizeable hole in the discoball's side plating, the metal plaques deformed by a strong, blunt impact. "ED-E's audio recorder is a bit wonky, it switches on and off on its own. That bullet did a number and a half on him and I didn't help, but if I - There." Sparks flew and a battery whirred to life, then the robot's speakers scratched and started to play.

 _" - and Courier Six never reached Vegas."_ Cass's brows knit together, then climbed up her forehead. It was Sarah Lyons, that much she could tell, but even with the scratching of the bot's speakers, it sounded different. Colder. Clinical. Detached. _"Yes, I checked with the Followers, repeatedly. Not a single trace. But around the time of the delivery, a businessman from Vegas passed through Sloan with a number of Khans. I found many of the tribals in a mass grave nearby Goodsprings."_

The speakers hissed static again and John made to speak, but Veronica lifted a finger to her lips and pointed at the bot.

 _"Yes, Harkness, I know. Chances are John Doe is involved, but right now it doesn't matter. I've verified the description of the Vegas man with the locals: a near perfect match with the Family Head of the Chairmen, Benny BootRider. He must have the Chip. I've made preparations to retrieve it tonight. Until then -"_ Her voice cracked and faded away in a shower of static. A click and the players were muted.

"It's dated last night, before dinner." Veronica's voice was troubled, her face tight and drawn. "I checked at the Wrangler after I took this little fellow down. They never saw her."

Cass's head was spinning and it wasn't the Med-X. The recorded voice overlapped with the Khans' broken admissions, opening up a new scenario she couldn't even begin to describe with all the possibilities to factor in. Then she nearly jumped out of her skin when John's fist went straight through a locker with a deafening crash of rent metal.

Veronica whistled, long and low, and took a step back. John ignored her, his expression stormier than Cass had ever seen. In a moment, he'd thrown the kevlar vest and pack on, grabbed Fritz, and barreled out of the locker room at a full sprint, sending the King on watchdog duty on his arse with a surprised yelp.

Veronica darted after him, the discoball clutched tightly under her arm, conflicting emotions puckering her face. Then Cass realized she was alone in the locker room, the echoes of their steps fading away already.

She cursed under her breath, grabbed her stuff and bolted after the other two into what promised to be another clusterfuck of epic proportions, trying to ignore the churning dread burning in her stomach.

0 * MiA * 0

Lampposts cast their guttering light on the empty streets of Freeside as the first hints of dawn peeked over the walls, finding the city deserted.

John sprinted down Vegas Boulevard, aware of the dozens of eyes following his movements; he caught glimpses of silhouettes bunkered down behind windows and doors in every building. Others kept to the narrow side alleys cluttered with garbage, hiding behind rubble or inside dumpsters at the echo of approaching steps.

The air was thick, the tension amplified in magnitudes by the eerie contrast to the bustling cityscape he'd navigated just the day before. He smelled war, a conflict he'd likely given a casus belli to and just as likely wouldn't be there to fight, to take responsibility for all the lives that would be broken.

May God forgive him because he couldn't: right then and there, he couldn't bring himself to care.

 _'Later. Once this is over, I'll settle everything else.'_

Aches and pains heaped upon his body, straining muscles and popping joints as he ate the distance to the Strip's checkpoint. He hadn't fully recovered from Novac yet, maybe not even from Goodsprings; every day's tussle, every fight added another nick, regeneration or not. His wounded shoulder pulled and complained under the bandages, but it didn't resist when he rolled it: whatever freak mutation his was, it was doing its job. Only the pain remained, but it kept him awake and on edge. He had a feeling he'd need that.

Waiting was not an option, neither for recovery not to weather a gang war. Benny and his answers were closer than ever, almost within his grasp, yet could be snatched away any moment if they hadn't already.

He remembered the tone Sarah used in the recording from the night in Primm. It was the same voice that dismissed the captive girls in the Bison Steve's, yet even more merciless and cold. Like nothing could or would stop her from her target, the thrice-cursed Platinum Chip, even if she had to carve a bloody swathe to reach it.

It was a sentiment he knew and shared. It steeled his determination and numbed the pain as he ran, yet fueled the panic building steadily at the back of his mind with every passing second.

Veronica appeared at his side, matching his longer strides with heavy steps, her cheeks starting to redden with effort. She had the look of someone with doubt eating at her resolve and a great burden on her shoulders, but it was neither that urged him to speak.

"Why are you tagging along?"

"It's that woman," she hissed. "She's not who she says she is. I want to know the whys and the hows, simple as that."

"How would you know who she is and who she isn't?"

Veronica hesitated, biting down on her lip, eyes dead set ahead on the constellation of glowing neon of the Strip.

"I just know, ok?" she settled for in the end. John snorted. "Look, it's personal. And complicated: we don't have nearly enough time for that. But she cannot be Sarah Lyons, trust me on it. And before you start, I swear I'm on your side in this. Pinky promise, cross on the heart. I don't care about this Benny-man or your Chip."

John nodded grudgingly, putting the matter to rest for the moment, and pushed ahead, a shadow of a nervous smirk tugging at his lips at Veronica's groan. He dared to look over his shoulder and was pleasantly surprised to see Cass gaining on the other woman, despite the pained grimace she sported. Then there was no more time for distractions.

The Strip's gates loomed ahead, a fortified gap in-between two walls over four meters tall and reinforced with welded, outer metal plating. Crudely cut concrete structures had been erected on either side of the large double gates, the walls freshly coated in garish colors and festooned with blinking neon boards and posters advertising over a dozen casinos and more. Concrete guardrails surmounted by tall fences split that last stretch of Vegas Boulevard into three lanes, two side ones large enough for two-ways pedestrian traffic flanking a wider avenue in the middle carpeted in undamaged tarmac.

Everywhere, from the ramps surmounting the entrance, rigidly on both sides of the road and barring the two smaller, pedestrian accesses on either side of the main gate, stood the Securitrons.

There was no trace of Victor, to John's mixed dismay and relief. None of the boxy murder machines presented the smirking cowboy's face; instead, a monotonous collection of the same strong-jawed, grim-looking and cigar-smoking army sergeant flickered on their television screens.

Be it the hour or the atmosphere that had ensnared Freeside, not a soul queued for entrance. The nearest sign of other human beings was a couple of burning barrels in a nearby side alley and the wordless buzz rising behind the walls. Whatever the case, John wasn't about to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

"Please stand by for identification," the nearest robot commanded when John strode up to it, its voice a metallic rumble. "Present a valid document or submit to the credit check. Violation of the premises will not be tolerated."

John shoved the open passport before the television box with a growl. Benny's zippo clicked open and shut at a frantic pace in his other hand.

"Good enough?"

The Securitron's screen flickered with static, then went blank. A moment later another face appeared where the Soldier cartoon had been.

"Mr. Doe! A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance," the sultry feminine voice welcomed him. A blond, cartoonish beauty smiled fixedly at him from the screen, her voice overly jovial. "I'm Marilyn, one of Mr. House girls. He has been wanting to meet you for suuuch a long time."

John frowned, a massive red flag rising. Cautiously, he stepped closer, hands twitching, painfully aware of just how many machine guns followed his every twitch, not to mention the micro-missiles. Regeneration or not, he'd simply be blown to pieces.

"He has?"

"But of course!" The Securitron gushed stereotypically. It struck John as wrong, somewhat. "Mr. House wishes to invite you and your lovely companions for breakfast at the Lucky 38," she continued, rolling aside to clear the way. "Any Securitron will show you the way."

"John -," Cass panted, her voice small, hands on her knees to catch her breath. He shook his head firmly. The clock was ticking.

"Thanks, but not now. There's someone I have to deal with first."

The Securitron didn't reply immediately. Apprehension and confusion curtailed his simmering annoyance, urging him to err on the side of caution if it wasn't too late already.

"Aren't you a busy man!" Marilyn chirped. Ahead, the nearest pedestrian gate swung open, a large arrow labeled _Tourists_ helpfully pointing at the entrance. The Securitron pulled up beside him and extended a clawed hand holding a small, round object. "Please accept this then, Mr. Doe."

The poker chip was striped blue and white, with a 38 of solid gold engraved in the center. John palmed it, almost without thought, surprised by its weight for such a small item.

"What's this for?"

"Why, a token of Mr. House's favor! A passe-partout for every place on the Strip but the NCR's embassy, complete with the permit to carry your guns in the open." John boggled, his surprise echoed by Cass's palpable shock a few feet away. "Benny is staying at the Tops Casino for the moment. Mr. House encourages you to exercise discretion, if possible. Once your business is concluded, however, Mr. House _insists_ on your presence at the Lucky 38."

The Securitron actually waved a claw after the trio as they filed through the smaller gate, which closed behind them the moment Veronica, the last in, was past.

The Strip took John by surprise, overwhelming his senses. It even managed, for a long moment, to distract him from his goal, leaving him gobsmacked.

Dawn was barely rising, yet the Strip was bathed as by the midday sun. Neon and light glowed everywhere in every color imaginable, blinking, shifting, and mixing into a visual onslaught. The music hit next, a dozen different tunes and arrangements bawling from speakers mounted on every lamp post and palm tree flanking the boulevard, or from the sore throats of drunks and sober alike.

Cass's hand found his shoulder and John took a deep breath, startled out of his reverie. Tobacco, puke, and alcohol flooded his lungs, hiding a hundred more different smells, stinks and aroma no brain could process at the same time. John blinked, then shook his head to shatter the spell.

"Do you have _any_ idea who you just turned down?"

The vehemence of Cass's tone was a sobering slap to the face. John straightened and started moving, picking the gaps in the flow of tourists to the other end of the Strip, where he remembered the Tops to be from Boone's crash course.

"I didn't refute him, I just postponed. We don't exactly have time to sit down and chit-chat with Victor's -" He gritted his teeth. "Come on, we're wasting time."

Cass groaned, lengthening her stride to a near run to keep up. "You don't get it, do you?" she pinned him with a glare. "Nobody has entered the Lucky 38 in two hundred years. Nobody has been invited to have _breakfast_ with Not-at-Home. _Ever_."

"Maybe he'll be amenable for lunch?" Veronica offered with strained cheer.

John took in Cass's words, his mind rushing to elaborate, but he forcibly put a lid on it and pushed the matter aside for later. So he shrugged, to which Cass started cussing under her breath, and yet he couldn't help looking up.

The Lucky 38 was like a beacon, glowing with so many lights it looked ready to challenge even the stars. His eyes settled on the slowly revolving lounge and stayed there for a moment, imagining the eyes of Vegas' mysterious ruler looking down at him. Though it was more likely he was being followed by the Securitron's cameras, if Marilyn's sudden takeover was anything to go by. There were just too many people still about to say if any Securitron was watching or following him, but he was fairly sure they were.

"Who knows. Maybe someone enters, every once in a while," Veronica threw off-handedly, awe tingeing her voice as she craned her head left and right while jogging slightly behind them. With a broken eyebot under her arm and her shapeless burlap sack, she did make for an odd sight in the eccentricity-laden Strip. "Doesn't mean anyone gets out."

0 * MiA * 0

The walkways and courtyards were crammed with street workers of both sexes flaunting themselves in different levels of nakedness, dancing to entertain and beckoning; the crooks of their arms were reddened by punctures, their expressions vacant, their smiles rotten and gummy.

He waded through men in suits who stank like drunk brahmins, work-hands in their best clothes, women in skirts and dresses imbibed with enough booze to down a cazadore. Many caracoled and staggered through empty parking lots, collided in the streets or simply passed out in lush gardens and thickets of palms. Soldiers danced and flailed in fountains spewing rhythmic jets of water; others tried to corral them in like cattle, complete with stunning rods. Stage-singers sold their art side by side with con artists and magicians displaying card tricks and dexterity, pocketing caps in exchange of cheap awe. Street-food vendors outshouted each other with ludicrous offers on all kinds of fried junk, feeding hollow-eyed men and women rifling through notebooks tightly packed with number sequences.

Urchins and women in garish, threadbare outfits grabbed at him, hands pointing and mouths spewing where he should sleep and with whom, what he should eat and drink and buy. John disentangled himself, pushed forward, step after step; he skirted around carts surrounded by truce-looking guards in Crimson Caravan finery, pushed away shady figures accosting him when the crowd thickened, inhaled the smoke of cigars, smooch, and weed that made his head spin for a moment.

The casinos consumed and disgorged tourists without pause, trickles swelling to rush floods only to wane again. He ran past twin huge lap-dancers made entirely of neon lights atop the Gomorrah and endless pyrotechnic fire shows in front of the Phoenix; giant, worn statues of hybrid gods stood vigilant on either side of a black pyramid, while on the opposite side of the Boulevard masqueraded voyeurs on gondolas welcomed their victims into a miniature copy of Venice.

Every step was temptation and distraction. John soldiered forward, struggling, pushing and shoving with more and more impetus, aware of the patrols of Securitrons keeping him in their electronic eye. Then, at last, when he was ready to grab Fritz and start shooting in the air so that people would just fucking _move_ , the crowd thinned and he was in front of the Tops Casino.

He heard Cass and Veronica come to a halt behind him. In front of him, the multiple sets of double doors swung open, producing couples, staggering gamblers, and surprisingly enough soft ambient music.

"Soo… what's next? Go in and clean their clocks?" Veronica asked, catching her breath. Sweat flooded down his own back and neck, drenching his shirt.

"There are several side doors for the caravans to unload," Cass whispered harshly, "and there's the stable in the far back too, the ruined section, where they keep all the cattle and farm-"

John strode to the main door, a death grip on Mr. House's favor chip, barely refraining from crashing Benny's zippo in his left hand.

"- or go in through the front door," Cass groaned, rolling her eyes when Veronica followed in. "Great way to get us all killed."

"I have a plan," he shot back, hand on the door.

"Yeah, barge in all gung-ho and shoot the place up to smithereens." Cass grabbed his wrist and brought it up between them. "Rushin' in won't work. Gimme that chip."

" _What?_ "

"House's chip, you lug." Cass rolled her eyes, then dropped her hat onto John's head and shook her hair free, letting the wet locks frame her face. "C'mon, clock's ticking."

Her hands went to her blouse and she popped two buttons open, revealing a long cut of her bosom. John's eyebrows took off from his forehead, but Cass paid him no mind but for her outstretched, demanding hand. She turned to Veronica instead, who was actually giggling.

"So, honest opinion?"

The brunette wiggled her eyebrows salaciously. "You'll kill them dead, girl."

John picked up his jaw with an audible click, flabbergasted. Cass rolled her eyes, curling her fingers in a 'give here' gesture.

"These are men and Chairmen both, there's only one thing always on their mind. Now gimme the chip!"

He made to protest, then Cass's hand closed around his. It was shaking slightly, but she gave him a strong squeeze. "Trust me, will ya?"

They held each other's gaze for a moment, then John nodded and handed her the Lucky 38 chip, Mr. House's favor. The corners of her lips quirked in a smile, then she took a deep breath, straightening her back.

"Alright, in we go. Back up my game and play the rough bodyguards part."

The Tops' reception was a place of high ceilings echoing with _Spurs That Jingle Jangle Jingled_. More importantly, John counted no less than seven Chairmen in white and gray suits with telling bulges under their armpits, a common feature with the ones manning the wooden rotunda desks tourists crowded around in cordoned lines, exchanging tickets for their coats and bags.

Cass strode up the only empty lane, hips swaying slightly and a small smile curling her lips. The clean white suit, self-satisfied smile and fancy bowtie identified the clerk there as the man in charge to John; Cass was apparently of the same mind.

"Hello there, doll!" The Chairman greeted with an appreciative smile that didn't quite conceal the suspicion in his eyes. "Welcome to the Tops Casino and Theater. I'm Swank. Can I offer you a drink? We're about to close, but ask and I'll wake up Tommy Torini's cats just for you."

Cass' smile widened as she leaned slightly on the desk. "Maybe later, big man. I'm Cass, by the way. I'm here on business with your boss, Benny." She slid the chip between them with a sharp clack. "From our common patron."

Swank's eyes threatened to pop out of their sockets, but he recovered quickly, chuckling huskily. "My, my baby doll, you play with the big leaguers. But right now, the Benny-man's kinda busy at the moment, dancing the tango with a lady friend, dig?" He waved a hand down one of the two halls, at a wall bar complete with stools and a staggering collection of spirits. "Drink and a chat first, whatcha say? Benny-man becomes a nasty cat every time his dance gets busted."

One of Swank's hands had found the chip, but the other remained firmly under the counter. John's eyes narrowed and then Veronica tugged at his sleeve. He nodded: the guards were edging closer.

 _'They know something's wrong.'_

"I hate to be a party-crasher, but it's really important business," Cass insisted. "From the man in the tower himself, you see."

Swank made a low sound of appreciative surprise and John almost strode up and made him swallow his teeth. Shooting his way through was becoming more enticing by the second. He clenched and unclenched his fists, eyes searching, but there was no trace of Benny or Sarah.

 _'What's her plan?'_

Veronica tugged his sleeve again and John noticed her alarmed expression. Then something clicked as she hefted the eyebot higher a few inches.

 _'A lady friend. Sarah!'_

"You drive a hard bargain, baby doll. Can't keep the Big Cat waiting now. Here, let me call Benny down from the Presidential Suite. Might take a while."

John stepped forward, balling his fist to smash through the intercom. Cass's hand closed around Swank's wrist as it moved to the speaker; she cupped his hand between her own, smiling coyly.

"Why don't you lead us up instead? Business doesn't have to cut in on the fun. Maybe we can think of something to… improve on it."

John almost stumbled, but Swank's hand lingered and then retreated from the speaker. The Chairman smirked, but again, it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You're a born negotiator, doll. Your friends here will join in?"

Cass leaned back, tilting her head to the side playfully and showing her neck. "They're very protective, but there's work… and then there's fun. Dig?"

Veronica snorted into her scarf. John did his hardest to school his face, his knuckles popping. Swank chuckled again, a sultry tone entering his voice.

"Oh, I _do_. You can keep your irons on you, I'm not going to argue with the Big Cat's mailmen on that: just keep them in your pants." He waved flamboyantly. "The elevator's this way, baby. After you."

Cass smiled stiffly and took Swank's offered arm, hooking her own around it after a moment's hesitation. She gave them a look that could have meant anything and nothing, but then they were moving past the reception and into one of the Tops' halls, four guards fanning loosely around them. More Chairmen populated the floor and aisles, manning the last green tables with games still going, wiping counters and floors or another dozen activities that didn't stop them from following John's group movements with great attention despite Swank's cheerful, chatty, _flirtatious_ demeanor.

The entire wing took maybe two minutes to walk down. It was two of the longest minutes in John's briefly lived life, yet no guns came out. Swank halted in front of a row of elevator doors in not exactly pristine conditions and called down two.

"One of these cages won't be enough for all of us swanky people here, doll," he said as both sets of doors slid open with a ding in short succession. The interior was clean but cramped, the lights warm. "You and your lovely girlfriend here can come up with me, while my boys go with broody and silent over there. It's a short, fun ride to the 13th floor."

"Sure, big man," Cass cooed, sending a silencing glance at John. He nearly missed it over Swank's wink at the four other Chairmen. Three entered the elevator ahead of John, leaving a comfortable spot tucked in right in the middle of them that had his name written on it. The fourth followed Cass, Swank, Veronica and the broken eyebot into the other.

 _'Let's get this over with.'_

The doors closed and the elevator jostled as the hoist got down to work, straining under the weight. Through the narrow, slitted windows, the Tops' main floor disappeared quickly, and then there was only him, the three Chairmen and the loud jostling of the elevator. It was enough to conceal the click of the switchblades. Almost.

He juked left; his artificial elbow cracked the temple of left Chairman in as his right hand drew the gladius in a reverse grip. He spun clockwise then and the gladius slashed through the right Chairman's hand before it buried into the back one's throat. Left Chairman flopped down dead against the wall as the back one's knees gave out under him and he fell, gurgling and choking on his own blood. The last one standing clutched at his mauled hand yelling, three fingers and most hypothenar missing; then John's left fist smashed his face in, making him swallow his teeth. The next three blows smashed his skull into so much paste. He crumpled in a heap over the cooling corpse of the back one.

The first floor's light switched on briefly as the elevator continued its ascent.

John unearthed the blade from the Chairman's neck and wiped it on the next one's rapidly reddening suit, cleaned his hand, then readied Fritz. Cass and Veronica were in with two of them, but if the little display there with him was anything to go by, these Chairmen were weak. Definitely another level than the Van Graffs or the Legion.

He looked down again. The suits clearly didn't make the man, yet a random thought hit him, a constant nag in the couple of days spent in the company of Craig Boone. He knelt down again, careful not to ruin his umpteenth new change of clothes with more blood, and rummaged the bodies' pockets briefly. On the second one, he found his quarry and slipped the sunshades into a pocket of his own vest, complete with the case.

 _'I'm about to go all in moments from now and I loot glasses. Great, just great.'_

The floor lights lit up one after the other in excruciating slowness, mocking of his hurry. When the 13th-floor bell finally chimed, he breathed a sigh of relief and filed out, Fritz aimed at the empty corridor with one hand as he dragged one of the bodies halfway through with the other, to block the doors and any reinforcements coming up.

The other elevator rattled as it stopped, but when the doors slid open John's lingering fears were laid to rest. Swank was shoved out, a grimace of pain in place of his easy charm, one arm twisted behind his back in Veronica's Power Fist. Cass stepped out a moment later, leaving behind the crumpled form of the last bodyguard, fast unconscious.

"See?" Cass said, her shirt buttoned up again. She walked up to him and plucked her hat from his head. "Thank you. Told ya he'd be fine and dandy."

Veronica glanced at the dead Chairman poking out of his elevator. "Quite thorough too. This wasn't your shining moment, Swanky-boy."

Swank's boggling when he found Fritz's muzzle right into his face was quite satisfactory. John grabbed him by the collar and shoved him into the wall, pressing the rifle's muzzle underneath his chin.

"Which room?"

"C-chill, man. It's the one at the end over there, with the double fancy doors and the guards."

John took in the corridor again, but the only signs of life beside them were the potted plants. _'Shit. Something's up.'_

"Stay here with this moron and block the stairs," he told the two women, pointing at the service door in an alcove near the other end of the corridor, steps away from the panoramic window. "There's bound to be more of them coming up. I'll make this quick if Sarah hasn't already."

Swank's brief-lived confusion, quickly replaced by dawning horror, was all the confirmation he needed.

Veronica stepped forward. "If she's anything like the Sarah I knew of, you'll need help."

"In that case, stand ready. I'll flush her out your way," John hissed, already moving. "Block the other fuckers from coming up, we can't be caught in a pincer." Then he was sprinting.

The thick moquette muffled his steps, yet they still rung like a hammer on bells in his ears. He ran past a first set of double doors halfway to Benny's room, finding them wide open: inside, a nice looking apartment complete with sofas and a pool table had its atmosphere of comfortable welcome ruined by the two Chairmen bodies long bled out on the pavement. John stumbled to a halt, cursing inwardly, and shot Cass and Veronica a last look before he stepped in and over the bodies, their throats cut so deeply they were nearly beheaded.

 _'Blood's barely starting to coagulate. They're still fresh.'_

The door leading deeper into the apartment was slightly ajar, giving only a peek into the room beyond. John leaned in to listen, then furrowed his brow at the rasping wheezes coming from within.

He leaned on the wood with his shoulder and pushed, dread and curiosity warring within his head, then stopped dead at the sight before him.

Benny was nearly unrecognizable from Boone's portrait, but the black hair and the tattered remains of his checkered suit quashed any doubt under a wave of anger and disappointment. Sarah had already worked him over: his arms were stretched above his head, hands missing fingers manacled to the headrest; everything underneath was a pulp of beaten, flayed, and mangled flesh that still somewhat resembled the dastardly head of the Chairmen, the man he'd chased all over the Mojave. His blood drenched the bed's white sheets crimson together with several towels and a balled-up handkerchief chewed up by teeth.

 _'And he still breathes.'_ The bastard was tough. That didn't earn him John's pity, nor his respect.

His reverie - Horrified? Envious? Fascinated? - was interrupted by steps approaching from behind. He didn't turn. He recognized them.

"Jesus Christ," Cass breathed weakly. "Fuck - that, _Jesus_ \- how - what the fuck?!"

"Sarah," John said. John's voice echoed odd to his own ears, flat and cold and devoid of any emotion despite the maelstrom raging inside his head without beginning or end. Benny wasn't long for this world, that he could clearly see: he'd lost way too much blood and if the wheezes were anything to go by, he had a punctured lung or at least extensive damage to his larynx. His eyes were swollen shut - no, one socket was empty.

Comprehension hit him like a sucker punch. There was no way Benny could speak, let alone answer his questions. No stimpak or amount of desperation and chest massage could save him now.

He pulled Fritz at the bastard's head and aimed down the sights. Benny didn't notice, too far lost in his personal hell: he coughed weakly, blood bubbling out of his toothless mouth. It would be an easy shot. Now way he could fuck it up. It would be over quickly.

Flashes of half-forgotten memories bathed in delirium came to him then, of a scalpel digging into his head, of hands holding him down. He lowered Fritz.

"John, the fuck? Just put him out of his misery."

John shook his head and made for the door leading out of the room and further into the apartment. "No. And don't you dare," he growled when her hand reached for the Browning at her hip. "He'll suffer every last breath he takes."

Cass didn't say anything. They held each other's glare for a long moment, then John pushed open the next door. The Browning barked twice, the bullets impacting with wet thuds. Benny's wheezing stopped and with it, John was again at square one.

 _'Goddamnit. God. Fucking. Damn it. It was all for nothing."_

He'd have punched the wall of the closet if someone hadn't already demolished most of it. Beyond the gap, a large room covered in sound dampening panels widened; physical databanks and tower processors as high as the ceiling belched sparks, cables, and electronics.

Sprawled in the middle of the floor was a powered down Securitron unit, completely undamaged if not for its cracked screen. The storage compartment in its chest, one he remembered from the blueprints, was carved open, the edges clean cut like it was butter and not metal.

He almost missed the ripple in the air flying towards his neck.

John stepped back and fired blindly from the hip, showering the room with lasers. Three connected and the air cracked, ozone burning up his nostrils to reveal a stone-faced Sarah, a glowing blue knife in her hand, her chest piece smoking.

He watched the knife a moment too long; her kick connected with his sternum and John was launched off his feet, leaving his breath and shock behind. He impacted the far wall over Benny's bed and his back and head exploded in pain; stars burst in his vision, dazzling him. His own breaths came in jagged gasps.

"You fuckin' bitch!"

The Remington boomed in quick succession, tearing away at walls and pavement but missing flesh. John's vision stopped swimming and he realized he was on his knees, his chest on fire. _'Six ribs cracked, one broken.'_ Cass was recharging, bunkered down behind a dresser; then John saw the air shift and ripple and a small cylinder popped out of the stealth field, hitting the ground heavily between them.

 _'Oh shit.'_ "FLASHB -"

Blinding light washed over the room with a deafening bang, seeping harshly through his shut lids. Cass's cry of agony was almost muted by the nauseating ringing in his ears, yet he didn't miss the heavy steps breaking into a run, hitting the ground impossibly fast. John cursed and stumbled blindly on his feet, cracking his eyes open around red after-images and dancing ink spots to check if Sarah had dropped grenades and mines on the way out. Cass had come to a knee, retching drily and clutching at her weeping eyes.

He forced her to sit and shouted something he barely heard about staying put, then recovered Fritz, drew Sunny and beat it out of the room at a staggering run, just in time to hear a telling gong detonation and see Sarah somersault back from the exploding pavement, a red-faced Veronica on her tail in a shower of torn moquette and tiles.

"You! Who are you?!"

Sarah remained silent, grabbed one of the potted plants with one hand and hauled it, vase and all, at John. He flattened to the ground and it sailed over him, shattering against Veronica, then he sprung up again to find Sarah's foot nearly in his face.

He crossed his arms and blocked it, then gasped as the bones in his right arm and shoulder cracked, the muscles tearing. Sunny fell from numb fingers as John skidded back a few steps, fighting for balance Sarah stomped down on the gun: the metal bent and cracked, leaving the N99 a broken wreck.

 _'What the -?'_

Sarah darted forward, almost too fast for the eye to follow. John fired Fritz once: the laser hit her square in the chest, eating through the armor's ablative ceramics, but she didn't lose a step or give a sign of pain. The gladius barely cleared the sheath when Sarah brought down her glowing blue knife.

The Legion blade was nearly cleaved in two on contact. John's eyes went wide, but he dropped the stump and barely avoided Sarah's following thrust at his mid-section. He shifted low and swept at her legs; she skipped over his sweep, stretching out her leg for an axe-kick, and took Fritz's blast in her lightly-armored hip.

She winced but didn't stop and John barely intercepted her foot with his artificial forearm. His back and legs flared up in agony, the sheer force trying to drive him through the floor; he went down on one knee and dropped Fritz, then saw the blue blade coming for him. He had the time for a single thought, one that only left confusion behind.

 _'Holo-blade.'_

Then Veronica was there and the Power Fist's impact deafened him. The pressure on his arm and back relented as Sarah was picked off the ground and thrown meters away, crashing into the pavement. By the time Veronica helped John on his feet, however, she was already dusting herself off: her chest piece was a blackened smoking ruins of laser burns, and her forearm had clearly snapped halfway, but she seemed none the worse for it despite the bones jutting out of her flesh.

"She's tough," John grumbled, spitting blood. _'Too tough.'_ His insides felt like the Drillmaster had taken a stroll all over him.

 _'Where did that come from?'_

Veronica nodded, panting. With a thud, her Power Fist hit the floor, belching sparks and coolant. Sarah's blade was buried deep into the mechanism.

"Cass?"

"Flashbang," he growled, blinking away the last of the afterimages. "Benny's dead." _'She must have the Chip.'_ "Swank?"

"I knocked his lights out and tied him up to the stairs' door with his own clothes." She managed a smirk. "Should delay them a bit."

The sharp crack of bones setting back in position cut through the breathless conversation. "Are you two done already?"

Sarah had closed the distance at a walk, her face devoid of any particular emotion but an overwhelming indifference. On one finger, she spun a large, shining Chip speckled with black soot, before pocketing it again in her pants.

"That's mine." John barked. Sarah arched an eyebrow in surprise.

"Really? That explains a few things, but you're wrong: it was never yours. You're like me and Vonnie here: just another pawn in a game you can barely see." And with that, she charged.

John aimed Fritz, but Sarah was simply too fast. Then Veronica pushed him into the wall and tore off her burlap sack, too close for Sarah to dodge. Momentum enveloped her into the thick cloth and then Veronica was on her, straddling her to the floor and raining punches with brutal efficiency.

"Who the fuck are you? _Who_? How do you know her name?!"

John shook his head to clear it, then blinked in surprise at the exoskeleton Veronica wore. Metal plates and mesh armor covered her from toe to neck; bundles of cables wrapped like muscle fibers around her arms and legs, supporting the hydraulics that lent shattering power to her blows; power she was putting to good use even without her Power Fist.

"Answer me!"

"I'm Sarah Lyons, _Scribe_."

The burlap sack was torn to shreds and Sarah's knees impacted with Veronica's back, sending her straight into Sarah's headbutt. Veronica's nose shattered and Sarah threw her off her, into a wall.

"And I'm more than she ever was."

John shot her in the back and Sarah cursed, her armor melting, then spun around. Her middle kick pushed Fritz aside, but John let go of the rifle before that and tackled the woman as she still stood on her single leg. They hit the ground hard; he headbutted her and it was like hitting a wall of bricks, but it was enough to stun her for a moment. He pressed all of his weight to pin her down long enough for his left hand to find her pocket. His fingers closed around the Chip just as her fist crashed into the side of his head.

She kicked him off, his head spinning and body screaming in agony. John hit the wall again and everything went black for a moment, or maybe an hour. When he opened his eyes again, Veronica was on her knees between Sarah and him; her left arm hung limp, cables torn, jutting out and spurting liquid on the broken armor plates at her feet. Sarah's face was a collection of bruises and bleeding cuts, her own armor in shambles and mostly discarded, but she appeared barely winded otherwise.

"Sarah Lyons…" Veronica drew in a ragged breath. " _Sentinel_ Lyons died three years ago in DC… hit by a nuke. She was buried… with all honors."

It might have been the concussion or the rest of the beating heaped on his body, but when Sarah picked up Veronica by the throat, armor and all, John could have sworn there was a sad smile on her face before it twisted to a mocking thing.

"The Brotherhood only found a body with my dog tags on. After that, _they_ remade me, only better."

Veronica snorted, or maybe whimpered, he couldn't tell, then spat in her face. "Ad… Victoriam."

She threw Veronica into the opposite wall like a rag doll. The brunette fell limp on her face and didn't get up.

John tried to move, but he was fighting just to remain conscious; his body behaved sluggishly, answering belatedly and at random. A death grip kept the Platinum Chip in his palm and that seemed to take all the strength he still possessed.

Sarah's face invaded his vision, beautiful yet terrible. Turns out, he still had something in him, stirring at her small, deprecating smile. He punched her.

She easily caught his fist in her palm; John was just too exhausted to be surprised when she slowly turned it, twisting his wrist. He would have screamed, but all that came out was a chopped cough.

"It's alright, John," she soothed. "You fought well. I'm just faster than you. Stronger." She started to squeeze and although John could barely feel any pain from the arm, he felt and saw his grip on the Chip slacken, inch by inch.

Her voice lost any trace of warmth, her eyes growing distant.

"Harkness? Lyons here. I have the Chip." _'No you don't. Not… yet.'_ "Doe and the Brotherhood Scribe interfered, but I've neutralized them." _'What… Scribe?'_ "Negative, a full extraction is not feasible. The guys at the labs will have to do with the arm and genetic samples. Lyons, over."

She shook her head and gave him a look that could have almost been of pity, then increased the pressure on his wrist. Her other hand seized his shoulder in a crushing vise. John nearly blacked out again.

Then the pressure abated and the air cracked with the acrid stench of ozone, followed by a snarling voice between the nostalgic and the cartoonish.

"Use of lethal force: authorized. Desist from your assault or you'll be terminated."

Four Securitron rolled out of Benny's suite on the far end of the corridor. The last of the stealth field shimmered away from around them, their claws already retracted to expose four pairs of X-25 Gatling muzzles. They boomed the warning at the same time as the muzzles started to whir and heat up.

Ozone prickled his nostrils again and Sarah vanished, heavy steps thundering toward the opposite end of the corridor at breakneck speed. John followed her blurring silhouette with bleary eyes and flopped on his belly just as the Securitrons unleashed hell.

Laser fire almost too bright to look at bathed the corridor, obliterating plants and rugs and everything in their path into ash and blackened ruin. He heard Sarah cry, then the deafening crack of shattering glass. The Securitron ceased fire a moment later and rolled forward, but the last of the red lances continued on outside. John felt the cool breath of the morning breeze on his face.

Sarah had jumped through the window. From the 13th floor.

The Securitrons declared something in their booming mechanical voices. A groan of relief followed, then a door sprung open and the distinctive sound of several guns hitting the ground reached him.

John propped himself up on his artificial arm and struggled to get his knees under him, to try and sit up straight. Blearily, his head spinning, he looked around.

Veronica was still face down on the half of the floor not a walk of ash, but her chest rose and fell. Cass staggered into the corridor just then, leaning hard against the wall, one hand probing around blindly. He felt like shit, ten times over: there wasn't a single joint or muscle in his body that wasn't begging to be replaced.

But he had the Chip, unblemished and intact in his left palm.

 _'This… this has to amount to something.'_

A Securitron rolled up to him then, the floor cracking and ashes billowing in the wake of its mono-tire. John sat there, unarmed and too tired to even attempt to get on his feet. He was pretty sure he'd just collapse again, even as he felt his muscles and bones already starting to slowly mend.

The security bot froze and silent static filled its screen for a moment. The face that reappeared next wasn't that of a blond, stereotypical starlet, rather a man's, well-shaped and elegant. The shadow of a cocky smirk curled up the corner of his lips, giving his fixed features a resemblance to life.

"A pleasure to meet you again, Mr. Doe," he said, smooth and authoritative in the same syllable. "I believe you have something which belongs to me."

0 = MiA = 0

 _Thanks for reading. Drop a_ _ **review**_ _if you are so inclined._


	15. Book I - End: 13) Cocytus

_So, my loyal reviewer, Aegon Blacksteel asked if things couldn't get any worse for John. I hope this chapter will remove any lingering doubts satisfactorily._

 _But don't worry everyone, this isn't Hogarth's story - not yet, at least. Things will get better in the future. Technically._

 _The inspiration for this chapter's first scene: The Departed._

 _On other news, we're past the 100 review mark! Huzzah! My thanks to_ _ **Paladin Bailey, Aegon Blacksteel, Partevoli, WilSquare, DocMarten2525, Little Caeser's, Guest**_ _(yours is the 100th. Cheers. Also, Yes.),_ _ **Baslias**_ _,_ _ **Jacob Sailer**_ _and_ _ **Mandalore the Freedom**_ _for their reviews. Last chapter was quite overwhelming in response. If you've gotten so far, especially past the Novac slog, and you haven't put this story at least on your alert list, consider doing so._

 **Chapter 13: Cocytus**

A full cycle of sleep was all Boone was granted before he was directed to the interrogation room. He supposed he should be grateful, even if sleep only made things worse.

Returning to McCarran had not been what he expected. He wasn't even sure of what he'd been expecting.

Most of his old unit was gone, dead or reassigned. Layla deserted shortly after Bitter Springs; Dhatri had been promoted to Major, leaving his kid to fill the ranks and the helm of the unit to Gorobitz. A solid officer, by the book. Not what a First Recon unit needed. But he had no authority to judge.

Betsy... he almost didn't recognize the woman. Almost. He cornered Sterling one hour into camp, had the whole story told to him. He felt sick to his stomach, the old Ranger's words echoing the cries haunting his fitful sleep. Ten-of-Spades was _his_ replacement, a fresh-faced, snot-nosed kid with a rifle. It should have been him, Boone, out there to deal with Cook-Cook. Another ruined life to had to his own tally.

 _'Get through the debriefing first.'_ After that, it was time to hunt. Maybe he'd find his expiation down the barrel of his gun. He threw the thought away in disgust at his own selfishness. He wouldn't. But maybe he would do some good.

The room was small, the plaster decaying. Splatters of crusted blood decorated one side in layers, the vestige of years of constant use and little cleaning. No doubt on purpose, an intimidation tactic. He wondered how often it worked with the Legion. Probably more with the Fiends: once the withdrawal symptoms kicked in, the stench of blood would drive them wild. Hence the restraints.

A few metallic chairs, as filthy as the walls, bolted to the floor. The table, heavy and clean, was a new addition: no specks, no dents. Not an interrogation then. Or maybe that's what they wanted him to believe.

Boone shifted in the seat, leaning against the backrest. He glanced at the fake mirror on the side, at the web of cracks decorating it. Were they observing him? Likely. If not there, through the armored camera in the corner. How long had it been since Boyle had left him there?

 _'Too long.'_ And not nearly enough sleep. If he moved, if he acted, he could keep it at bay. Keep ahead of it all. But they'd given him a taste of rest first, then left him to simmer. He didn't know how long he could keep it up.

Why had he warned Doe anyway? Had their tail realized it? Intelligence didn't need much proof to take action. Maybe they would, and he'd see Carla and their daughter again -

No. He'd never see them again, even if another life existed beyond death. He hadn't earned it. He never would.

The armored door descended into its sheath with a mechanical hiss. Lt. Boyd stepped in, prompting Boone to rise and snap at tight attention. A Ranger followed her closely, her duster swishing at her heels; the red lenses of her riot helmet zeroed in on him the moment she stepped through.

"At ease, Sergeant." Boyd nodded at the Ranger; she leaned back against the far wall, her arms crossed. Boyd sat down at the table, opposite to him, and set a thin, faded folder before her.

She fixed him with a pointed look ringed with deep, black bags. "We don't have much time Craig, so I'll be blunt: did you alert John Doe he was being followed?"

 _'I told him not to step into this very same trap.'_ It was semantics, but not a lie. "I didn't."

The Ranger snorted. Boyd produced a yellowed paper from the folder, sliding it toward him. Boone picked it up and read it. Then read it again, his face tightening. The edges of the paper curled in his fist.

"What's the meaning of this?"

Boyd rubbed her eyes, but the Ranger butted in. "Your psychological evaluation says it all, Sergeant. You're not fit for duty. Your application is rejected."

He glared up at the woman from behind his shades. "I haven't submitted to any evaluation yet."

The Ranger shrugged. "We spared you the time. It's signed, approved and archived. You can keep the copy."

He balled his fist under the table, struggling to keep the growl from his voice. "What's the point of being here then?"

Boyd sighed, offering a look bordering on sympathy. "Lieutenant Monre's report spoke of your loss, Craig. Command believes it's too early for you to return to active, front-line duty. Certain emotions could get the better of you during an operation. Especially in First Recon, that can mean the mission fails and the whole squad dies."

Boone looked away from Boyd's earnest sympathy, down to the folder. "What about that?" There was no way it wasn't related to him, somehow, but no NCR soldier got more than a single form, two tops, for their entire career.

"This -" she searched for the right words. "You could call it an alternative."

The Ranger pushed away from the wall. "You can still serve your country. In another team."

"And if you're successful, you'll spare the NCR another bloodbath," Boyd continued. Boone frowned at the easy byplay. "You'll save more lives than you ever would as a single sniper. You'd be a hero."

Boone didn't give a rat's ass about becoming a hero and privately disagreed with the first statement. A clean line of fire, a powerful scope, a good rifle, and Caesar would be history. The trick would be getting close enough to take the shot.

Doable, if the sniper had no illusions of surviving past the first shot. It'd be a good end.

"I'm listening."

The Ranger shook her head, pointing at the folder. "It doesn't work like that. You accept the whole package beforehand or you walk out that door and back to your life right now. Once you know what's at stake, there's no cold feet or butting out."

"Take your time, Craig." Boyd stood slowly and picked up the folder. "It not a decision you should rush."

"Don't take too long, though," the Ranger said, making for the door. "The clock's ticking."

Boone took a deep breath. "I'll do it." The alternative would be to start walking east with a full bandoleer, back to the perch in Cottonwood or Nelson, until his rifle ran dry.

Already on the door, Boyd and the Ranger exchanged a glance. then marched back inside. This time, both sat at the table, side by side.

Boyd spoke first. "I have to ask, Craig: are you sure of your decision? There's no court martial if you go back on this. Office business."

Boone studied the Veteran Ranger from behind his glasses instead, weighing her. After a short while, he nodded.

Boyd slid the folder across the table. "Open it."

A picture of John Doe, clearly inebriated, glared blearily up at him. Boone read.

 _Real Name: Unknown. Known Aliases: John Doe, The Butcher._

 _Classification: Infiltrator, Enclave Secret Service._

Boone blinked, reading that line again. Enclave. _'Shit.'_ That explained a few things. The rest of the file was blank beyond a detailed physical description of the man, complete with mention of his left arm prosthetic, the same Major Granite had warned him from when he was tasked with making sure John Doe reached McCarran. Those orders he'd broken, for reasons that weren't yet clear even to him. Gratitude? Comradeship? Doing the right thing? He couldn't point a finger at it.

Especially now. Enclave. That was a name he thought confined to ghost stories.

The folder was awfully thin, a few sheets in all. Mostly speculations. The Ranger's slightly scratchy voice stopped him at the end of the first.

"You wouldn't know, but during his recovery in Novac, we managed to plant a bug into the Butcher's wounds. It relayed his position to one of our satellites."

Boone's eyebrow twitched. "Inside him?"

The Ranger chuckled, to Boyd's confusion. "I had the same reaction when I was told," she clarified. "To put it simply, the bastard regenerates faster than any human has reason to. We have several ideas on the how, but that doesn't concern you. Bottom line, we had to switch it off earlier today: he caused quite the scene in the Strip. A lot of dead Chairmen."

Boone grunted. "Benny."

"One in half a dozen. Enough for Mr. House's tin cans to take notice and carry him into the Lucky 38."

Boone's eyes widened behind his glasses, but he kept his tongue in check. How many other curveballs were queued up? Boyd cleared her throat and picked up the retelling.

"We have no eyewitness, but we believe House used the tunnel network that spans underneath Vegas. Nobody saw the Butcher get into the 38 by the front door, but we still had enough signal to notice when it overlapped with the Lucky 38 and killed the connection. House would have tracked it in moments. And this is where you come in, Craig."

"I never trained to be an agent," he said. It wasn't an admission of cowardice, just a statement of skill.

Bod nodded. "And that's half the reason we've chosen you, Craig. Mr. House has experience in this game; moreover, the people behind Doe, even assuming he's really amnesiac, would sniff out a trained plant in minutes."

"The other half is that you already know the Butcher. Fought and traveled with him." With the ease they swung back and fro, Boone was fairly sure it was a standard good-cop-bad-cop game. A bit too obvious, maybe: then again, he couldn't back down now, even if he wanted to. Intelligence had his number and he probably wouldn't see the end of the week if he cut back. He glanced at the Ranger and the large Sequoia at her hip. Maybe not even the end of the hour. "If the amnesia is more than a ruse, then he will remember you quite well. That'll be your way in."

Boone grunted. Made some kind of sense, at least. "What would you have me do?" He glanced at Boyd. "Kill him?"

"Killing him is not the problem," the Ranger said. "One large caliber round to the head or the heart is all it takes. I could have done it any moment yesterday while I tailed you. We need information."

"He's a chance we cannot pass up, Craig." Boone's jaw tensed. Carla was the only woman who ever called him Craig after his mom died. He kept his emotions in check. "You will re-join his company in a few days: right now it'd be too risky. "Tell him the NCR wouldn't have you again and you're in need of work. Play the disillusioned veteran card and follow him. Help him. Even befriend him." Her open hand closed into a fist. "And once he establishes contact again with his superiors, you'll set them up for us to finally deal with them in one go."

Boone swallowed, eyes narrowing. Boyd's look of sympathy was even worse than her use of his name, mostly because he couldn't tell if it was honest or just so well practiced he couldn't distinguish it from the true thing.

"Everything clear?" The Ranger's red lenses were searching for his eyes. He nodded. "Good. Until then, we won't meet again. You won't enter any NCR installation unless with the Butcher, or by his request. No meetings with other agents, either: House has cameras and microphones everywhere, even here in McCarran." Boone glanced up at the camera. Did it even work? If they were speaking so freely, it meant the area was picked clean. "We'll arrange dead drops in Freeside and outside: isolated locations, easy to control, harder to spy on. In the next few days, you'll learn one of our ciphers."

"What if my cover is burned?"

Boyd grimaced. "Try your damnedest not to."

"If House sniffs you out, you'll be on your own. Others will fill you in on other extraction procedures," the Ranger clarified, then made to get up. "If this is everything, I'd call it a day."

"Tanner. Wait." The Ranger froze at the use of what must be her name. Boone was fairly sure she was glaring at Boyle under her helmet. Boyd remained unperturbed. "If he's going to do it, he deserves to know why."

"He's going to do it anyway." It was true, Boone had to admit. The NCR was the only thing he had left, the only constant remaining in his life. But Boyd had piqued his interest and his neck was itching with curiosity like it hadn't since he was a teen. It felt quite inappropriate, considering the likely importance of the matter at hand, but it was there.

The Ranger sighed and sat back down. A hiss and her helmet was resting on the table, revealing slightly slanted eyes over high cheekbones and a thin mouth not used to smiling. She wasn't smiling now either.

"Alright, listen up. This shit is classified at the highest levels. Which means need-to-know basis only. Don't mention it in your reports beyond what codenames we'll teach you." Her eyes, hard as flint, grew distant; her expression, stonier.

"We've met his kind for the first time in Baja, back in 2278. The rank-and-file was sent in to annex the area later, in July, but we Black Ones were there since early February. Command had us digging for the headquarters of a pre-War company involved advanced farming tech. Greenway Hydroponics."

She sighed, the name sour on her lip. "Turns out, we weren't the only ones. The bug-eyed bastards had been poking around since long before we arrived, and it showed: we didn't find a scrap of information for all the people we lost down there. They didn't appreciate us trespassing into their turf."

0 * MiA * 0

The green light above John's head flashed three times, followed by a long beep. Mechanical arms retreated smoothly into their slots in the curved walls and ceiling and the oxygen mask on John's face was removed as well, leaving him to take a lungful of chilly, antiseptic air. The needles slid out last, their plungers emptied, leaving angry red marks on his arms and the inside of his legs, but little in the way of pain.

Then the hatch slid sideways into its sheath and John blinked hard, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the stark white light outside. How long had he been in there? Where was he anyway? There was no way to tell.

His feet slapped on the warm, pristine tiles and he took in the vast room, the perfectly tucked beds, the rows upon rows of cabinets filled with medications and pharmaceuticals of all kinds, many of whom he didn't even recognize.

The hiss of a Mr. Orderly's gravitational thruster demanded his attention before the British-accented robot cleared its voice loudly.

"By God, Mr. Doe. Any more naked and you'd be an affront to public decency."

John blinked blearily, then shook his head to try and clear it of the wadding stuffing his skull. The last... while was a jumble of flashes and images. He remembered being carried, the overhead lights of tunnels and the dank smell that signified a lack of use and aeration. Metal claws had put him into the Auto-Doc to... to recover, Sarah had done a number on him and -

He spun around, part of him marveling at his reaction time. Five Auto-Docs, cylindrical miracle-wonder towers a time and a half higher than he was, lined one wall of the Clinic. The one beside his - though to claim property on the thing sounded odd to his ears - was still working in a soft thrum of activity. On its long side display, a 3D rendition of Veronica rotated slowly, several pop-up windows notifying on the on-going surgery.

"Fret not, Mr. Doe," the Mr. Orderly boomed, floating closer, its claws making a shoo-shoo gesture. "Your friend is in the most capable hands this side of the Atlantic, worthy of the Queen herself! Well, claws, but that's only semantics! Away with your nudity now: there are perfectly fine clothes set out for you in the locker. Go on, now. Bugger off."

John grumbled, looking down to contemplate his briefs-wearing self, and flexed his right arm as he plodded off to the nearest table. Sarah's kick had nearly shattered it, bones and tendons and all: now, it remained a bit stiff, but he was vaguely aware of his mutation dealing with the last of it already. How come? He shook his head again, but it was hard to think. He'd been drugged, all the needles left no other option, but by whom?

The answer hit him like a sledgehammer when he glanced out of the medical bay's window and saw the three Securitrons outside, Marilyn among them. Like popping a balloon, clarity returned, almost staggering him.

" _You have something which belongs to me."_

Mr. House. Victor's handler. He had taken the Chip, then carried him to fuck-knows-where. How had Cass called him? Not-at-home?

There was no trace of the redhead, but John punched the dread into submission. She'd been blinded, but otherwise fine. The after-effects of flashbangs faded away without permanent effect after a single exposure: she wouldn't have needed an Auto-Doc.

Mr. House better not have pulled another Easy Pete.

He frowned at the clothes set out for him in a neat pile on the table: shirt and slacks, soft black socks and designer shoes, but no tie or jacket. Nor any of his weapons. He winced as he remembered what Sarah did to Sunny.

Nothing protective or even remotely practical, but the alternative was going around nearly naked and probably have either the Mr. Orderly or another of House's bots waste time telling his ear off, so he got started on it. Hospital scrubs and slippers waited in another pile, probably for Veronica: what remained of her exoskeleton was splayed out on another table, two Mr. Handys picking at it.

 _'She's a Brotherhood Scribe. Religious cult, my ass.'_ Actually... In a way, he figured she hadn't lied, just rephrased the truth with similes. It stung, and yet he couldn't really blame her.

The atrocities on both sides of the Brotherhood's war with the NCR were words and stories to him, but it was unlikely Craig Boone or even Cass were going to be of the same mind.

John grimaced, glancing back at the working Auto-Doc, his brow knitting. She had his secrets as he had his, but she'd also saved his hide with the Van Graffs and again when she pushed him into that wall. Sarah - _whatever_ she was - would have probably killed him there and then, otherwise.

 _'Later then. Not much to do about it until she can speak for herself anyway.'_

He stomped his feet into the designer shoes to loosen up the stiff leather without much success, then walked out. Marilyn piped up the moment he crossed the door.

"Mr. Doe! So glad to see you in good health again! Mr. House is waiting for you in the Penthouse. This way, please."

 _'I'm in the Lucky 38. His home turf. Hot damn.'_

"Hold on a bloody moment," John snapped hoarsely. The other two Securitrons remained still on either side of the Clinic's door. No Victor, only soldiers. "Where's Cass? And what did you do with my rifle?"

The blonde's screen flickered, but her voice remained chipper and sultry. "Ms. Cassidy is resting in one of our suites, sugar." The starlet's face winked out: the view of an elegant hotel room straight out of a pre-War luxury holiday brochure replaced it, shifting slowly sideways in an arc. A security camera, then. Tucked under the sheets of a double-poster bed, Cass slept. John watched her chest rise and fall and finally let out a small sigh of relief.

Marilyn's snapshot replaced the camera feed again. "She was quite worn-down, the poor dear, but Dr. McPayne assures she only needs a good rest to recover from your misadventures."

On the other side of the closing door, the Mr. Orderly cried out, "You can bet your Yankee starlet butt cheeks she does, miss!"

"As for your equipment, they are in your suite. You won't need them for your audience: our lovely Casino is the safest place on the planet!" The elevator door, made entirely of reinforced glass, slid open to reveal enough room for four Securitrons to roll comfortably in it. It was empty. John was half expecting Victor to roll out any moment, which made Fritz's renewed absence ache all the more keenly.

"Come now, sugar: Mr. House always becomes despondent if he's left waiting for too long."

0 * MiA * 0

John warily descended the curved staircase into the Penthouse's salon. The whole place was a picture of prim order and refinery, from the carpets to the wooden handlebars to the panoramic window running the length of the floor. The fading daylight rolled in, nothing but the darkening sky and the distant desert outside of the glass. And yet there was no removing the stale quality of the air or the complete lack of human presence to the place.

A few Securitrons and a Mr. Handy barman behind a bar counter were the only moving figures in the background, but they held little of John's attention despite making him feel once more woefully unarmed.

The elephant in the room regarded him with the same unblinking smugness that came to him at the Tops, his eyes seemingly following him, not unlike the Mona Lisa's. John came to a stop at the base of the imposing screen, where Marilyn motioned to a single comfortable-looking armchair. John looked around again, confirming that he was the only one made of flesh and bone in the whole room, and settled down, sinking in the plush thing, a hundred questions and accusations on the tip of his tongue.

"Hello, Mr. Doe. It's been a while since we last met."

John frowned, sitting back up on the edge of his seat. The sky outside was barely starting to darken. "How long have I been out?"

"Only most of today: the Auto-docs work fast, and your own abilities only contributed." He paused, a thoughtful hmm echoing around him. "Your surprise seems genuine. Unfortunate. Nevertheless, you completed your contract, if belatedly."

John shot to his feet, fists clenching. "What the bloody hell are you talking about?"

A sharp edge entered House's voice. "Sit, Mr. Doe. I will condone your behavior on the grounds of your recent injuries, but I expect my employees to show me respect and proper manners. Especially those who owe me their lives, free of charge."

"Employee?" John blinked, stunned. "How is it -"

"Sit, Mr. Doe."

John flopped down on the armchair. The image of Easy Pete's lead-riddled body cut through his shock like a blade, however, rekindling his suspicion. "Why do you use this name? Why call me John Doe?"

"Because you wouldn't reveal your true identity when Victor hired you," the screen replied easily. "A clause I offer my employees when dealing with sensitive matters, and one you always insisted upon in our past dealings."

" _Fuck_ ," he growled, grasping at his short hair and shaking with frustration and exasperation. After a few moments, he took a ragged breath and straightened, his eyes haunted. "Who am I then? What did you hire me for?"

"To find and deliver the Platinum Chip to me, of course," House asked as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "A task you would have completed without delay, if not for Benny's interference."

"No, that doesn't add up." John shook his head, frowning and suddenly exasperated at talking to a glorified movie screen. Would the man show his mustachioed face at some point? "Sarah said the Mojave Express was hired for the delivery."

Mr. House huffed in disdain, his voice equal parts human and synthesized. "Ms. Lyons' information was not as good as she thought. The Mojave Express was just another bait. Alas, Benny's interference inadvertently set her on the right track." The smooth face winked out, narrowing to the top left corner. Several grainy pictures blinked on the mega-screen, detailing a dark cave illuminated only by a single flooding flashlight. Half a dozen shattered bodies in broken armor were heaped in a crevice, several days dead and ravaged by heat and carrion eaters by the looks of it.

"These were mercenaries I hired to ensure the Chip's delivery. An additional safety net. Victor found them dead a little distance away from Goodsprings, several days after you were ambushed."

John narrowed his eyes, trying to discern some telling details on the cause of their death, but the images were too blurry. "She did it?"

"Their wounds suggest more attackers of less skill than Ms. Lyons showed against you and Ms. Santangelo."

"Benny," John said. It came out flatly and hollow. The bastard was dead, in excruciating pain to boot, and the only thing he had to show for it was the sour taste in his mouth. He had taken his answers to the grave and if even the all-powerful governor of the Strip had a sliver of a clue… "Benny and the bloody Khans."

"Undoubtedly," House concurred, the apparent vitality of his picture despite the stillness unsettling John. He didn't let it show: no reason to give him another advantage. "I underestimated the extension of Benny's ambition and his resourcefulness. He caused a great deal of trouble to you personally and almost foundered projects several magnitudes greater than his own myopia." His tone was one of mild disappointment, but not even remotely apologetic. "Then again, he underestimated you and your determination in completing a job."

"I didn't do any of this for the sake of the job. I wanted my answers."

"Be as it may," House mused. "It doesn't detract from your accomplishment, Mr. Doe, nor from your talents. I followed your exploits as far as my transmission range allowed." His voice took up a rhetoric quality. "A man shot you in the head and you tracked him down across the entire Mojave, surviving situations that would have killed lesser men twice over? It's commendable, and I always fulfill my end of a contract."

Another Securitron rolled up to him then, a metal briefcase held gingerly in its claws. It was deposited in John's lap, heavy on his thighs. Gingerly, he unclasped the locks and lifted the lid. He couldn't help the sharp intake of breath.

"Ten thousand caps, freshly minted of Vegas' press and guaranteed by my gold reserves," House droned as Joh's eyes remained glued to the shining rows of caps despite himself. "As per our agreement on the delivery of the Chip. Now, with this bit of business complete, I would offer you something more than a renewal of your employment."

John shut the briefcase loudly and placed it on the floor with a sharp clack, a sour taste in his mouth. It felt like Bright's veiled attempt at corruption, only it was worse, and at the same time completely different. House was giving him scraps of answers, piloting the discussion until it was him talking over his own voice. Could he even trust a man who didn't show his face? He _was_ giving him more information than he'd gathered in more than a month since waking up, scrappy and without reference as they were.

His next words fell with the impact of anvils. "Why should I trust anything you say after what Victor, _your_ bot, did in Goodsprings?"

The Securitrons didn't open fire on him. Instead, House's face shrunk again and John found himself staring at a close-up of his own frowning, hard face on the background of a rundown building. Fritz's butt poking from behind his shoulder.

 _"… deliver the Chip to the Lucky 38,"_ his own recorded voice said. _"No stops, no assistance. I'll take the direct route up the I-15. It should take me six days."_

"That was you, Mr. Doe," House said dryly. "Regarding your wild accusations, Victor's unfortunate behavior in Goodsprings was triggered by Benny's own recklessness in attempting to penetrate my mainframes through a hijacked Securitron to decode the Platinum Chip. He failed, obviously, but managed to wreak enough havoc the automatic recall order was issued to all my units. Victor's behavior was simply a reaction to an obstacle."

John blinked, stunned. He found his voice a moment later. "An _obstacle_? It gunned down an innocent man for trying to stop it from abandoning the whole bloody town to the Powder Gangers!"

"Manners, Mr. Doe. This will be your last warning." House waited, but John only gritted his teeth in muted response. "As I said, it was an unfortunate accident. If it's of any comfort to your sense of justice, the unit in Goodsprings failed to report in and the copy of Victor's personality construct stored in the Lucky 38 was a victim of Benny's attack. If you wish to blame someone, blame him. As far as I'm concerned, it's a matter of the past. The future should interest you more."

 _'Victor is dead. Benny is dead.'_ John remained still, momentarily at a loss. What was next? He could track down Dog Head: he'd have the answers he needed. Or maybe not.

"Mr. Doe."

"Sorry," John blurted, wrenched away from his spiraling thoughts. He pressed his knuckles to his forehead, the fight ebbing out once more. "You mentioned an offer. Renew my employment or something."

"Indeed, and much more. Stand up and look out of the window, please."

John climbed the few steps and moved past House's screen. A faint sense of vertigo gripped him then as the entire Mojave panned out before him.

He found the Spring Mountains in the southwest and followed the I-15 until both disappeared under a storm front rolling from the Divide and concealing Goodsprings from sight. Somewhere within the orange clouds was the graveyard where Benny tried to execute him, where he and Sunny shared a drink after the battle. He had seen the Lucky 38 for the first time then. Now, he was on the other side of the glass, in the beating heart of Vegas, and Benny was quickly rotting flesh, despite Sarah's involvement. Where was the feeling of accomplishment? Where the satisfaction? Where the anger at that bloody woman?

Weariness not of the physical kind was seeping deep into his bones instead, threatening to drown him and the last of his churning emotions to leave behind an ultimate indifference.

"What do you see?"

John touched the warm glass. "The Wasteland."

"Correct, Mr. Doe. This is barely the husk of the world I knew in before the bombs fell, but it's a husk that can be revitalized to surpass even its past splendor, and humanity as a whole with it."

John found himself chuckling mirthlessly. "That's ambitious. What do you care? I'd say you have everything you can wish for already."

House sighed. "It seems you are poisoned with the same short-sightedness of the NCR and Caesar." John's eyebrow twitched. "Like them, you see Vegas as the be-all and end-all, when it's only the starting point to something much greater: a shining future for humanity, whose survival you ensured by delivering the Chip. Now, I'm offering you a role in shaping it."

John looked over his shoulder at the screen, his face painted in surprise and disbelief. "Are you kidding me? I'm a killer," _'A monster.'_ "not a savior."

"I never jest, Mr. Doe," House declared flatly. "Only because you had no chance to know better, you are not limited to such a selfish role. Your desire for vengeance has pushed you far, but it's not enough in the long-term. You want a cause, an ideal worth fighting for, and your unique set of skills would serve me and the Mojave well."

"Would it now?" John echoed him, crossing his arms across his chest.

"I believe so. There's a war brewing on the horizon, and it's a war I intend to win, and humanity as a whole will benefit from it. The NCR and Caesar's amalgamation of tribals have numbers, but they lack in vision and scope: they follow empty ideals, woefully mired in a past that never existed. They'd destroy my Vegas, consume it without restraint in the pursuit of a meaningless, chest-beating victory, like the few resources they still possess. But give me five years, and I'll have turned this Wasteland into fertile land and restarted the industry. Ten, and I'll have colonists on the Moon and Mars."

John's lips parted, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. His mind reeled, both from the sheer, crazy audacity of what he'd just heard and the utter lack of any doubt or hesitation in House's voice: the man, if he was really a man and not just an overachieving computer, believed every word he'd said with every fiber of himself, the conviction rolling off almost like a physical force.

He looked out at the desolated desert expanding outside the window, trying to come to grips with the possibility. It was as exhilarating as it was absurd.

"How is it even possible?" John finally asked in a small voice. He cleared his throat. "The nations before the War used up every last scrap of resource you'd need to achieve something like that."

"True, Mr. Doe. But many knew the Great War was coming and took measures to prevent the end of humanity. Developed the technology necessary to give humanity a future." He chuckled. John could almost hear the smirk in his voice. "Unlike myself, however, they didn't take steps to ensure they lived to the day the rebirth could commence, but their technology survived. What's contained in the Platinum Chip is all I needed to finally set those plans in motion. As good and efficient as my robots are, however, I'll need a capable human agent to carry on those tasks."

"Me."

"If you accept, yes," House preened. "The benefits to you personally and yours would be substantial. They already extended to Ms. Cassidy and Ms. Santangelo, despite the latter's association being nothing short of a threat to me."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. Of all things, a headache was rushing to the front of his head. "Right. The Brotherhood of Steel."

"The very same. Their backward ideology and zealot view on technology are deeply troubling, but a matter for another day. Had I not intervened, however, Ms. Santangelo would currently be a guest of the NCR Military Police, to say nothing of her health."

"Thank you, then." The headache intensified. No matter how reasonable House might seem, his ego made it clear he would not be crossed. John didn't dare to think what would happen if he refused his offer, but Veronica's words from earlier that same day - _'feels like a month ago'_ \- came back to haunt him nonetheless.

And would it be so bad? House was borderline egomaniacal, but if he could really keep true to even a fraction of what he promised… that was a long shot, but John's eyes had fallen on Freeside when he was sightseeing. He could already see the smoke rising from fires in the city.

 _'Bloody Van Graffs have something to answer for.'_

"I accept," John ground out, then continued. "But I have three requests."

House huffed, clearly annoyed. "My terms are already generous, Mr. Doe." The speakers fell silent. "But very well, speak them and I'll see."

John grunted and stepped in front of the computer. "Veronica. Let her recover and let me deal with the issue of her affiliation." He grimaced, recalling the apparent reasons of her exploration fancy. Could they be true? "Things may not be as straightforward and set in stone as you believe."

It took House only a second to decide. "Very well, Mr. Doe, I'll trust your judgment in this. She might possess information useful for a future endeavor. Next."

John's brow furrowed, but he brushed the weird wording aside. "My actions sparked a turf war in Freeside between the Kings and the Van Graffs. I believe they are involved with the Legion."

A note of surprise actually entered House's voice. "You possess any proof?"

"My rifle," John shot back. "The Legion took it from me at Nipton, then Cutting tried to kill me with it. It's the same one, beyond any doubt."

"Hmm," House mused loudly. "Interesting, if circumstantial. I assume you want to stop the hostilities, and a peaceful Freeside recognizing my authority is necessary for my projects. Granted, then. What's your third request? It's growing dark and I'd see you depart to your first task sooner rather than later."

John arched an eyebrow, slightly taken aback. His body felt fine, however; actually better than he had before Sarah wiped the floor with him. He'd take action over brooding right there and then.

Still, he had to ask. "You have something for me already?"

House's voice grew flinty with displeasure and impatience. "The list is long and time is ever shorter. Now, your third request?"

"This." He pointed at the screen. "Is this going to be constant, or will I get to meet you face to face?"

"We are already face to face, Mr. Doe," House replied flatly. "I'm two hundred and sixty-one years old. I had to take radical measures to extend my life, but I assure you that I'm human, beyond any doubt."

John kept his doubts to himself. He sure sounded human enough. _'As if I'm an authority in the field.'_ "Alright then. That's all."

"Splendid. Marilyn will escort you to the armory to gather your equipment. I'll have your rifle carried down as well. Once you're ready, I'll explain your task."

Mr. House winked out at that, leaving John to stare at a black screen. Behind it, he could barely make out a thick plume of smoke against the darkening sky, rising from Freeside.

 _'What have I gotten myself into now?'_

0 * MiA * 0

Thirty-eight floors underneath the bustling streets of his Strip, Mr. House followed John Doe's every movement through a dozen cameras, while his automated subroutines continued to direct his CODEd brains in the thankless task of building his New Vegas back to its pre-War's splendor and beyond.

He zoomed in on his new lieutenant's face as Marilyn pressed the button leading down to the armory. At the same moment, he monitored the sleeping Rose of Sharon Cassidy, a significant added bonus attached to his new recruit; he also observed the unconscious Brotherhood Scribe, Veronica Santangelo, as the Auto-Doc slowly mended the extensive punishment her body had endured. Exploiting her presence would require more ponderation and simulations.

Information flowed in from thousands of probes, sensors, cameras, and units all over the northern Mojave, coalescing into the ether of data his consciousness resided in. His eyes were everywhere at once, inconspicuous and vigilant; they had been since long before the NCR swaggered in and he allotted them their squatting grounds.

He looked over Ambassador Crockett's shoulder as he typed away weekly reports at his terminal, while at the same time he copied every sentence and deletion from within the man's computer. His microphones registered every word exchanged in McCarran's mess hall, the closest he'd managed to approach the OSI and Office of Intelligence in the Mojave so far. He cross-checked the sum of caps the cashiers of the Phoenix deposited to the New Vegas Bank, compared it to the declared amount and found the purloined margin barely above acceptable limits.

The NCR believed it was his hubris speaking when he affirmed that he _was_ Vegas, back during their first official contact at Hoover Dam in 2275. A foolish attitude of theirs, he was perfectly content to encourage, feed, and exploit.

As his CODEd brains continued to process thousands of operations per second, micro-managing every aspect of his Vegas, Mr. House focused on his new lieutenant. The withered husk of his body, a tasteless necessity he was bound to, frowned, an expression that always annoyed him before his uplink. Doubly so when his projections proved refreshingly underestimated, and yet still a partial failure.

He'd calculated a meager 23.72% chance that John Doe, after his arranged confrontation with the late Benny, would take so readily, almost eagerly, to his proposition. The Chairman's untimely demise had left him more space to manoeuvre the man into believing what crafted lies House fed him, leaving him painfully easy to influence. The wounding of Ms. Cassidy and Ms. Santagelo had been an unexpected boon he'd readily exploited as well, one of the few things to salvage from a potentially disastrous situation he'd failed to predict.

However, the very notion that an enemy agent, her affiliations still to verify, managed to sneak so easily under his watch and almost made away with the Chip was both _unprecedented_ and _unacceptable_. A full 8% of his processing power was currently delegated to tracking down the woman and analyzing every scrap of information, both past and new, even remotely leading to her and her masters.

And yet it seemed the woman Lyons had vanished, slithered away from his grasp.

As the elevator started its descent, Mr. House examined the data gathered from the fight at the Tops a few hundred times over, grainy frame by grainy frame. The woman was incredibly resilient, far more than any man or robot, besides maybe Sentry Bots. Inhumanly strong and fast, clearly the results of extensive augmentations of unknown origin.

It was unfortunate he'd been unable to scan her with the advanced sensors suites on his Mk. II Securitrons. She clearly possessed superior senses, as she'd detected his units even before the Stealth Fields dropped: another unfortunate necessity, but he'd had to sacrifice surprise to ensure no damage came to the Chip.

And then she'd fled. Picked her knife running, then willingly jumped from the thirteenth floor while damaged. She must have known after the landing she'd be in the condition of making her escape.

Now, that ought to restrict the number of manufacturers.

He left his organic subroutines to process the data and returned to John Doe. Yes, the offered aid and healing had clearly impressed the man, swayed him to his side despite past misgivings. His body language and expression, every muscle contraction captured by Marilyn's sensors, suggested frustration, confusion, and conflict, but also a modicum of relief washing over a large bedrock of lingering guilt. His analyses suggested he cared, in different ways, for both women, with a strong, repressed and potentially sexual inclination for Ms. Cassidy. Something else he could use.

Anger was there, too. An unfortunate trait, but one that had proven excellent fuel for the man's determination. Harnessing it against House's targets would provide Doe the outlet he needed while House eroded his reticence and rebuilt it into unwavering support.

All the data joined the continuously updating profile he compiled of the man. Once complete, it'd determine the most efficient angles to pursue in order to reshape the man's will and values and align them fully with House's own agenda; at the same time, he'd perpetuate the illusion that the man's own opinions in his assigned tasks had any real influence by conceding on minor points from time to time.

The remodeling work had started by lying to John Doe about his standing employment. The camera footage of his hiring, that he'd fabricated from recordings on the Strip and in the Lucky 38 itself, as well as Victor's last transmissions. In time, he would produce a completely new identity for John Doe, one beneficial to House's purposes and that his new lieutenant would be _eager_ to embrace.

Unfortunately, Benny's attempt at a hostile takeover through that ramshackle, patched together AI of his, Yes Man, was no lie. The whole event made for a huge disappointment, the proof his judgment had failed when assessing Benny for the role Doe now covered: a physical hand to further New Vegas's interests where House's own reach wasn't enough. Like every action and every failure, the repercussions of the failure carried on, still throwing proverbial wrenches into his plans. Contained troubles, accounted in advance by contingency projections, but still, troubles he had to deal with, wasting time, money, and assets best invested elsewhere.

He'd also yet to track down Unit ST47-357's location after the Goodsprings' fiasco, an unacceptable delay considering the amount of resources delegated to the task. The personality construct Victor had been one of the victims of Benny's AI bludgeon attack; but while the last copy moving the old MK. I chassis deployed to Goodsprings was valuable, ascertaining the reasons for its disappearance and failure to comply fully with the automated recall order was a more pressing matter.

His projections had Deathclaws, Cazadores, and Fiends in that decreasing order as the most likely candidates for the unit's destruction. The involvement of a before unforeseen party in the shape of Sarah Lyons, however, introduced new variables.

Mr. House delegated another 0.04% of his processing power to the task, then summoned the digital 'folder' cataloging the data Unit ST47-357 had gathered thirteen days before it went missing.

The mercenaries hired to ensure the courier's delivery of the Platinum Chip had been slaughtered, yes, but not by the Great Khans. Another lie he'd told, to see if the contradiction stirred John Doe's memory. It hadn't. His face-recognition software, going through the hundreds of thousands of pictures gathered across the years for a match or even a compatible resemblance born of the same genetic line had also failed to produce any result for the man, which in some form was more telling than any match.

He needed more information, which he was already in the process of acquiring. In the Clinic ward, Ms. Nannies and Mr. Orderlies ran tests on Doe's biological samples, taken during his brief recovery: soon, they'd start to dissect his genome for every and any hint of the nature of his regeneration.

At the same time, another CODEd brain went over the data gathered on the man's extensive prosthetics: deep scans by the clinic's sensors and the Auto-Doc's logs indicated reinforcements to the skeleton and the muscles of the back and chest to support the arm replacement. That avenue of technology still remained rather unfamiliar to him, the fabrication and implementation processes wildly experimental and dangerous as well… and yet one distinctly familiar name popped up consistently on top of the projection charts, making his own withered body, the useless appendage that it was, grimace tightly in disgust.

Big MT. How _distasteful._

He examined the burn marks and the crushing wounds found on the mercenaries' bodies once more, then dismissed the file. Both matched John Doe's known modus operandi, though the execution suggested more... control and precision on part of the assaulter. Something his new lieutenant seemed to lack. Lyons then? The similarities between the two's combat method were not inconsiderable. Or perhaps a third party was involved? Doe had been implanted with a tracker, now removed during the surgery procedure: a basic, antiquated thing, but no less effective for it.

He put all the data through simulations and waited for the formulated results.

The elevator opened on the armory's floor and John Doe was stepping out by the time the projections returned. The results remained… inconclusive. Not enough data to go by.

Later, then.

He let more simulations run and ordered the Securitron holding the Platinum Chip into his personal elevator. It arrived at the destination a minute later, a secluded, comms-locked level fifteen floors underneath Vegas, and slotted the Platinum Chip into a pre-prepared console completely isolated from the rest of his network. Then House had the Securitron physically start the data transfer, before he remotely fried and gutted every system of the unit, turning it into a useless pile of scrap and effectively canceling the last medium of taking anything outside of the room. A single unit was a small sacrifice for the prize ahead.

Besides, recreating another Platinum Chip, once Doe completed his first assignment, would be a trivial, if time-consuming thing.

Preventing the contents from _any_ chance of escape was the only priority. The collapse of the personality construct Yes Man after it broke the encoding of the Chip on Benny's orders had been fortuitous: had his former employee tasked a less unstable VI, the recovery would have been quite more complicated that it turned out to be already.

The data transfer was surprisingly fast. Doe was still arming up by the time the console's screen buzzed and the outline of a long, dour face started to form. Shaggy red hair and a trimmed two days growth made for a disheveled image, starkly opposite to House's own primness and elegance, but the artificial portrait managed to reproduce that infuriating light the man's eyes had possessed in life, the source of so many headaches before and after the bombs dropped.

Mr. House allowed himself a moment of smug triumph.

The image crystallized on the screen, but elected to remain silent. The recalcitrance didn't spoil House's mood. At last, after decades of sending scavenging teams into the ruins of Silicon Valley and hundreds of thousands of caps invested, the path to the future was open.

"Hello, Derek." He put all the smugness in his considerable arsenal in the greeting. "It has been two-hundred and three years, eleven months and twenty-seven days since your upload. I trust you've considered my last offer in all this time: the world isn't quite as you remember it."

 **Book I - The Stolen Path - End**

 _Wow. Never thought I'd get here and in less than a year._

 _Before you ask, Derek is not an OC, but at the same time, he's not established canon either. He and others in my stories, as well as Greenway Hydroponics, exist in that limbo of 'should-have-been' that has devoured several Fallout projects before the time of Bethesda. You can find all of them on the Wiki with a little digging._

 _Thank you for reading up to this point. If you're so inclined and you have something, anything to say, this is the best possible time to leave a_ _ **review**_ _with your opinions and ideas. I'll see you soon in the next Book,_ _ **The Order of Business**_ _, which will be uploaded on this same story._

 _Until next time,_

 _Alexeij_


	16. Book II: 14) Tremors

**Book II - The Order of Business**

 **Missing in Action 14) Tremors**

 _AN: My thanks to_ _ **Paladin Bailey, Aegon Blacksteel, DocMarten2525, cuteb0i99xD, Jacob Sailer, Excisium, WilSquare, Designation A1-13, Amaturnoveldude,**_ _ **PartyPat22**_ _and_ _ **Master Doom Maker**_ _for their reviews, critiques, and support. Special thanks to_ _ **Excisium**_ _, who's been beta reading the previous chapters to iron out blemishes and terrorist attacks on the English language. To_ _ **Jacob Sailer**_ _again as well, for being my gun-consultant and stopping me from digging a shallow grave for this Arc._

 _A shout-out to all the readers from Romania as well. May has definitely been your month: you've given even the Always-First-Place-US a solid run for their money. I also toyed with the function of El Dorado Substation and how the Mojave energy grid works, plus how the energy gets sent to the West from the Dam/ Helios. It's still got big flaws, but at least it's not a single Substation servicing the entire area._

 **Prologue**

Night had fallen over the mountains. Marcus watched the snow descend on Jacobstown through the lazy curls of smoke rising from his cigar. Hundreds of meters above, Mt. Charleston's peak was long capped in white, as were the other peaks around the renovated resort. During the day, one could even spot a white cap on La Madre Mountain, a few miles to the east. It was going to be a cold winter for Doc Henry: the old sack of bones had already started complaining about the lack of a central heating unit.

The Super Mutant, old even by his people's standards, cast a look around his town, a dream that had yet to fail him. The Doc's recent progress on a cure for Stealth Boy Schizophrenia had calmed down Keene and his nightkin for a time. Rather than shambling about growling and muttering, some were even helping tending to the bighorners or patcingh up the bungalows alongside their green kin. Or at least they were trying, before buggering off in a fit of temper, but Marcus would take progress in any form and shape at this point.

Another drag and Marcus extinguished the cigar butt into his palm. The thick, leathery skin insulated him from cold and heat alike, leaving only a not-unpleasant sensation of warmth that vanished as soon as he tossed away the stub. Sighing, the Super Mutant climbed to his feet: the bench underneath him creaked in relief, the reinforced wood slightly sunken by his familiar weight.

As he plodded back to the main lodge, Marcus glanced up at the dark billboard and the smudged painted characters announcing the town's identity to whoever may pass through those parts. _'I'll make you proud, old friend.'_ He still liked to think the mutants he'd gathered here throughout the years had found a sense of commonality in Jacobstown, despite Tabitha's secession proving him wrong. Still liked to think the same union of intent and sympathy that made a Brotherhood Paladin and a remnant of the Master's Unity fast friends lived on in Jacobstown.

Tabitha had called him naïve and dumb-dumb, but it was a good dream to stop fighting for. One day, perhaps.

The humming of Henry's machinery and Lily's prattling to anyone who passed by her accompanied Marcus into the back of the labs. There, Doc Henry had set up a small clinic when he arrived, but he'd rarely used it ever since. The Master hadn't made them to be vulnerable to sickness or disease and apparently not even the Doc was eager to be his own patient.

The two guests were still where he'd left them half an hour before, but the old man looked more than ready to leave, leaning forward on his seat with his pack dangling from one hand. Like a young kid getting ready for a school trip counting the seconds until he could be off, the part of his brain still connected to his Before supplied. Marcus snorted at the comparison.

"What?"

"You. I thought age had cured you of your wanderlust, John."

Something painful twisted on the deeply lined planes of his face, poking out from underneath the scars and the dark liver-spots marring skin almost leathery from age. It was weird for Marcus to call someone not even half his age _old_ and to internally mean it as well. By human standards, John Cassidy had been an old man back when they'd met in Broken Hills all those decades ago. The man who'd limped into Jacobstown a week before, by comparison, was ancient. And like all ancient things, tired.

"It did, for a wee while," he admitted, looking at the woman sleeping in the only occupied bed. Under the gauze wrapped around the top of his head where one of the nightstalkers nipped him, his eyes were jaundiced, hooded pits. "Settled down, had a wee one. Stayed on straight an' narrow for a while." He looked over at the other human in the room. "She'll be a couple've years older than the lass here now."

Marcus folded his meaty arms across his chest. "When did the General come looking for you?"

"I went lookin' for him meself." He leaned back in the chair, eliciting creaks from it Marcus'd associate with a Super Mutant's weight, not a puny human's. But no simple puny human would live so long and still be fit to take on a nest of nightstalkers like John Cassidy did and had. "I was dyin', Marcus. Me heart an' liver couldn't decide who got to off me first. And after what we lived through? After that wil' ride? I didn't wanna die. I wanted more. Family life wasn't enough. Fuckin' eejit I was."

"You were afraid."

"Right in fuckin' one, mutie," John snarked, an old spark flittering into his hollow eyes as he glared at Marcus. "Afraid t' die. Afraid t' leave my wee one an' Laura alone. Afraid of the mess I'd make wi' Rose if I stayed. Wouldn't expect yeh to understand."

Marcus shifted his ponderous mass to lean against the wall. "Do you? You might be surprised, John. I led my people here when Aki came to Broken Hills." He held John's glare for a few more moments, until the fire faded and the human looked away. "Why didn't you go back?"

"Yeh don't make a deal with the devil and then back off." John rubbed his face. "An' Aki never ran a charity, even back in the day. He wanted sumethin'. Wanted me t'be sumethin' for him. And for years, I was." He shrugged. "Then Laura died. After that, it was just too late. Better this way."

"For whom?"

"For her, yeh stupid lug. For Rose. Got a chance to make more've her life wi'out an ol' man an' his shite hauntin' her."

Marcus walked over to the cot. The dark-skinned woman under the sheets was thin to the point of gauntness, but her sleep was peaceful now that her fever had finally broken. Old burn scars snaked down the left side of her face and neck, disappearing under the hospital gown. An IV dripped nutrients into her arm, but Doc Henry had removed the electrocardiograph two days before, declaring that she'd wake up on her own when her body was ready.

"I see," the mutant rumbled. "He sent you to find Kana then? Does he know about this place? About her?"

"Kana, huh?" John shrugged. "He doesn't, far as I know. Which ain't much, granted. But as I found yeh, so can his lackeys if they put an ear to the ground." He scratched his cheek, where a milky white five o'clock shadow was gaining ground. "I didn't even know she was in the Mojave 'fore I saw her in this bed here. The fuck happened t' her?"

"She was shot, then she tried to flee through radscorpion territory," Marcus said flatly. "She was lucky Neil stumbled into her. It's been touch-and-go for a long while, but she'll get better. She's strong."

"Shite luck runs thick in the family," John grumbled after a little while. "Hell, I thought she'd died in that nuclear clusterfuck."

"It's tantamount that Aki doesn't learn of this, John. Not of her, and especially not of Jacobstown." Marcus turned around to regale him coolly, fists curling with simmering anger and affront decades old. "I won't let my people suffer the same fate of Goris's brood."

The chair creaked again and so did the floorboards. John Cassidy climbed to his feet with a grimace of pain, favoring his right leg.

"He ain't gonna hear a word from me, Marcus. I've quit. I'm out. For good, this time 'round."

"After all this time?"

John chuckled mirthlessly at the Super Mutant's surprise. "Heh. Only so much an ol' man can take. Reno was the last for me. I've had more 'an enough." A dry cough wracked his chest then, spilling through gritted teeth. Another followed, breaking through. Soon, John was near doubled over, sharp barks bouncing off the walls.

Marcus steadied the smaller man with a paw-like hand until the fit was over. John took in a wheezing breath, then straightened up with some effort and pushed him away.

"Look at me," he whispered. "My body's startin' t' reject this shite an' fall apart, at last. Not even Aki can cheat death forever." His face hardened and some strength returned to his voice. "And I'm not gonna be damned 'fore I go back t'be his fuckin' guinea pig again."

They were at the town's gates before either of them spoke again. John seemed reinvigorated by the chilly mountain air, treading forward with a barely noticeable limp. Marcus found himself looking in his direction more than once during the short walk from the main lodge. It wasn't for fear a Nightkin would take offense at his presence, though.

"Where will you go now?"

John breathed in the night air and for a moment, Marcus saw the brash, lively man he'd fought side by side with against the Enclave beneath the rind of what he'd let the Chosen One make him into.

"Far away from Cali sounds pretty good right 'bout now. North, I think. I heard the bombs didn't hit as bad up there."

"You could still go to see your daughter."

"And wi' what face do yeh think I'll go an' meet her? This?" John shook his head. "No, Marcus. This mug's better left dead an' buried, for both've our sakes. I don't deserve this, and neither does she."

A dog barked then, a loud, otherworldly sound that resonated in the night and quiet of Jacobstown. The old man and the mutant looked at each other, mirror surprise morphing into recognition on their faces. Then the echo trailed off, but not before Marcus spotted two yellow eyes staring at him, boring into what little of a soul the Master had left him. Cassidy's sharp intake told him he wasn't imagining it; yet a heartbeat later, those eyes had vanished into the shrubbery, two lights blinking out with nary a sound.

"Jesus on a stick. Ain't that the ol' mutt?"

"He is."

"… Fuckin' shite. Won't the dead remain dead anymore?"

Decades had passed since they parted ways last time in different circumstances, but what needed to be said had already been said. They kept their farewells short. Hands were shaken, the gnarled human's engulfed in the meaty mutant's, then John Cassidy walked off. Marcus watched him until the night swallowed him up, knowing he'd never see his friend again.

0 * MiA * 0

John Doe hauled the Fiend's body to the base of the power pylon and propped its back up against the explosive pack he'd slapped on the thick, metallic skeleton. He gave the body a good shove and grunted in satisfaction when only the broken neck lolled, then checked the time on his Pip-Boy. After a bit of mental math, he doused the body with a large helping of distilled alcohol and set the timer for one of his stealth-boys to thirty minutes; the device went around the dead man's wrist.

The body disappeared in a waft of ozone, together with the explosive pack. The alcohol would hide the subtle stink from the beginning stage of decomposition from the dogs. With the first light about to crown the top of the nearby hills, John set out at a fast jog around the hill overlooking the Edward Clark Station. Or the 'Test Field', as he'd started to call it in his head after Mr. House got into the details of his first task while he was picking his new loadout in the Lucky 38's armory.

' _With the courtesy of the Nevada National Guard depots.'_

It had taken him a couple of hours to navigate the labyrinthine network of Vegas' sewers, even with the brand new Pip-Boy weighing down on his right wrist. At first, the waste waters and the new equipment shifting in unfamiliar ways slowed him down. After he left behind the section warded off by House's automated defenses and robotic patrols, it was the local population.

He had doubted Cass' words at Aerotech a few days before, about the people squatting down in the sewers for lack of better lodgings. Now he knew shouldn't have. But the destitute gave him a wide berth after they had a good look, with the boldest – or the most desperate – trailing him only long enough to make away with some of the mole rats and assorted beasts he blasted away at with Fritz.

By the time he'd passed under the walls of Freeside, civvies were scarce. He'd found the trio of Fiends sharing a chem high around a wall of leaking sandbags by following the bouncing echo of their voices. John had needed only one of them for the plan he'd concocted from House's information on the Station. The only woman, a girl really, looked way too young under the grime and the nervous thinness of her body.

In the time he'd wasted considering to spare her, she'd spotted him in the dark corner where he lingered. The choice made for him, he'd scythed them down, all of them, then hauled the most intact body the rest of the way: out of the sewers and then southwest, towards the shores of Lake Mead and the NCR's defensive lines stretching between Camp Golf and Hoover Dam.

He had reached his destination hours later, in the dead of night. The clouds concealing the moon had made avoiding the NCR patrols and checkpoints easier, as had the night-vision goggles built into his helmet, yet another of House's gifts. The next few hours had been spent on a secluded outcrop, comparing the information gathered by House's spy devices and stealth Securitrons with the patrol patterns around the Station.

It had also given John the chance to scrub away the sewers' filth from his clothes and his body the time to rest after several hours of carrying a corpse through the Mojave. Auto-Doc or not, Sarah's kind ministrations had left a considerable toll on his body. But yet again, failure was not an option. Mr. House's directives echoed in his ears.

" _It's paramount that you remain undetected, Mr. Doe. Many of my plans hinge of keeping the NCR in a friendly disposition: your reported presence in one of their restricted sites would not help in that direction, no matter the plausible deniability."_

At this point, John was fairly sure the whole throwing him in the thick of the NCR defenses was a test from House, to establish what kind of use he could be to the megalomaniac shut-in other than cracking skulls and sowing chaos. And as far as risks went, as he trekked through the ruins, he realized House had made sure to take the least for the maximum gain.

Nobody saw him enter or leave the Lucky 38. His new equipment had no recognizable insignia, save for Fritz. Even the Pip-Boy was a standard model, not unlike the ones he'd seen on Haversam or the Iron Guard's officers. House could communicate with him through it, but it was something that could probably be shut-off remotely.

The only real risk House was running by sending him to do his dirty business was John's capture, but even if no further mention was made of them, they both knew House held two very good reasons under his thumb for John to keep his silence.

House's ambition was as enthralling as he was ruthless in removing the obstacles on his path. It was all in the tone he used to speak of the NCR, like annoying wasps to be swatted away. And now John was in a position that had once been Benny's, whom House had been more than eager to stake out to the best contender. John had no wish to end up like that greasy bastard. Even less to see Cass or even Veronica share in his fate.

He really hoped Cass had taken the advice he'd left for her before setting out.

The chain-fenced perimeter of Edward Clark Station and the rows upon rows of transformers and power pylons emerged from beyond the edge of the hill. Aluminum cables rose from the transformers to reach for the pylons, transporting the high-voltage electricity produced by the Dam to Vegas and McCarran in the north, down south to the El Dorado substation but more importantly to the west, around the edge of the Black Mountains and down the I-15 into the beating heart of the NCR.

John was there to give all that energy to House, at least for a few moments. He squatted down behind an overgrown bush, checked the time on his Pip-Boy again and the gear secured on his body by the military webbing, then switched on the second stealth boy he'd picked from House's armory.

The waft of ozone and the ripple as the light around him was distorted once more didn't bother him. Rather, they elicited a tingle of familiarity from his skin. John didn't stop to ponder on the whys, no matter how much every new hint beckoned to him. He was working on a timer running out fast.

The NCR's defenses were focused on the east and south, wary of Legion saboteurs. John approached from the northwest, where the patrols were wider in-between and like all sentries in the history of forever, glancing pointedly at the sun as if to urge it to rise faster as the end of their shift grew closer.

John skirted around the first patrol, keeping downwind to avoid alerting the dog plodding along the bored watchers. Then he dashed forward, light on his feet and fully aware of his near lack of body armor as he moved from shadow to shadow to avoid the floodlights mounted on the watchtowers lining the perimeter.

He reached the heavy chain-link by keeping on hard terrain in order to avoid treacherous footprints or puffs of dirt, but once there only allowed himself a few gulps of precious air. Then it was time to climb the fence, one step at a time to avoid shaking it. He stopped twice in his ascent as more patrols filed not a meter away from him, chatting in a low voice. He held his breath until they were past him, his shoulders burning with effort, then continued up.

He thanked the stars for his artificial arm when he had to grab and pull at the coils of barbed wire adorning the top of the fence. A precious minute of muttered curses later, he'd loosened it enough for him to slip under it, but not enough that it'd not be classified as a coil unwinding from its hook at a later inspection. He landed with a soft thud and froze, half-expecting every floodlight to converge on him, followed by halts and guns discharging.

When none of that happened, he forced his legs to move again and take him to the control center. So close to dawn, the Station's inner grounds were nearly empty, the day-shifts sleeping under the assured safety of their comrades' vigilance. John found little merriment in the thought: he was too busy keeping an eye on the timer clicking away the seconds on his Pip-Boy.

' _Sixteen minutes to get in, find the main console, upload and then get the hell out of here. Stellar.'_

The main door was a no go: the duo of sentinels might have been bored out of their skulls, but they sure as hell weren't deaf or blind, or both. Nor was the dog napping at their feet. John thanked again the effectiveness of Abraxo and the near-magical masking properties of stealth-boys, then started circling the structure for an access point.

He found it seventy seconds later in the shape of an unlocked window on the second floor, where House's projections had the technicians' dorms to be. _'Someone's going to regret their late-night smoke.'_

A nearby stack of discarded metal panels served well enough as a boost up. John's artificial arm closed around the windowsill, but momentum carried his body to impact against the wall with a loud thud. Ice shot down John's spine and he made to haul himself up. Then he heard the steps and in his world awash with green, a bleary-eyed face peered out of the open window. He stared down, right into John's eyes.

John's free hand closed around the commando knife at his belt, but the middle-aged man's eyes passed over him, looking right and then left as he tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes. _'Right. The stealth boy. He can't see me.'_ But he could touch him. John's eyes locked with the man's hand, only inches away from his.

' _Don't move your hand,'_ he mentally begged the oblivious man. The knife slid free of its sheath. _'Go back to sleep and don't move your fucking hand. Please.'_

The techie murmured something in a heavy accent and his head disappeared inside. John held a breath of relief in, sheathed the knife and then forced himself to look at the Pip-Boy as he grabbed the windowsill with both hands. The gig cost him a whole minute, and then two more before he judged it safe to haul the rest of his body inside.

The night-vision showed him rows of mostly empty bunks, with only a few occupied by figures wrapped in heavy, coarse sheets. John tiptoed across the room to the door, finding it slightly ajar rather than locked. Unsure whether to thank his lucky star or curse it, he decided not to tempt fate and quickly slid into dimly lit, empty corridor.

The next few minutes were a mix of navigation by memorized pre-war blueprints, wall-hugging after the faded indications, and the ticking of the seconds until the stealth-boy on the dead Fiend ran out of charge, revealing it to dogs and patrols alike. He found himself in a closet down the corridor from the control center and the night shift posted there with only seven minutes to spare.

John checked the time again, then pulled out the remote detonator.

The explosion was brief, the bang muffled by the walls and distance. Yet there was little muffling the grinding screech of metal, or the rumbling of the ground as the great pylon swayed and fell. John had already left the closet by then, moving with the first tide of the chaos as the Station's personnel was shaken out of their routine or off their beds. The guard at the control center's door shouted inside and was shouted back at, but John didn't catch what was being said over the base's alarm siren blaring to life.

He slipped inside the control center as the guard ran down the corridor, leaving his post unattended in the panic. Another greenhorn, though with the training programs enacted by the NCR military, John suspected few could survive long enough against the Legion to become veterans.

The control center was a chaos of flashing consoles communicating the sudden interruption of the main power line to the west. A couple of techies tried and failed to get on top of it, fumbling with switches and technical jargon in a near panic. Nobody noticed when John plucked the Pip-Boy's cable into one of the unattended consoles and inputted a sequence of commands.

The lights flickered and plunged the whole Station in near-complete darkness. Nobody saw or heard the door opening and closing again over the mad blaring of the alarms. Nor did they notice the odd bending of light around John as he ran out of the Station through the front door, exploiting the confusion to slip past the barking dogs.

" _The NCR technicians will assume the systems overloaded by backslash when the pylon went down,"_ House had explained. _"With their control center offline for a while, there will remain no trace of the energy spike funneled over to Vegas and into the Lucky 38. My main reactor will switch on. I won't need to be a beggar in my own house anymore. I'll have the working infrastructure to lead Vegas into the future. And fret not, Mr. Doe: the NCR is at least competent enough to repair the comparably light damage you'll infer in the span a few days. Until that time, however, Helios One will have to compensate the reduction of output to the Core States. The Strip will be still serviced, but that means less electricity to Freeside, if any at all. And that's when we walk in."_

Those words circled like hawks in his mind as he swam away along the shore of Lake Mead, leaving the alarms of Edward Clark Station well behind him. He spotted the mark he'd placed on the shore a few hours before after twenty minutes of solid swimming, during which he tried to fend off the creeping images of lakelurks grabbing at his feet by focusing on each stroke and on what to say to Veronica when he got back to the Lucky 38.

He had no idea what to say to Cass either, if she was still there. Twenty-four hours ago, the three of them were rushing down the Strip to get to Benny. Now, he'd just completed what amounted to a black ops operation for the self-appointed ruler of Vegas. If he was honest, he didn't really know where to begin with. And he hated the selfish part of him that hoped she would still be there, but he could do nothing about it.

He'd reached the safety of an abandoned picnic area, sheltered in a shallow cove, and was unearthing and checking the rest of his gear – a MP5-SD3, a silenced Sig-Sauer P226 Tactical and a variety of 9mm mags, grenades, supplies, caps, and combat armor pieces – when his nostrils flared with the smell of ozone.

He levelled Fritz, eyes scanning the lake shore. A glowing Tv-box rolled out of a guttered trailer in the last shadows of dawn.

"Well done, Mr. Doe," Mr. House soothed. "I've uploaded the parameters and coordinates for your next task on your Pip-Boy."

The wrist-mounted device beeped in acknowledgment. John glared from under a dripping brow at the unflinching robot and its master hiding at the other end of the line. "Another one? Already?"

"May I remind you again that time is of the essence, Mr. Doe, and that you're being handsomely remunerated?" House let the words hang for a few more moments, then his voice returned to its usual silky tones. "It's a simple ghoul-cleaning operation in a Vault a short way north of here. Pay attention now: the surrounding area is heavily irradiated, which relates to your objective there, shutting down the Vault's reactor. Unfortunately, a particularly aggressive brand of geckos has shown a certain fondness for the location. I've dispatched two units to await for your arrival and help you deal with the pests. They'll carry more rad medications as well, should you need them."

John swallowed a curse and nodded slowly. House had it all planned out already, down to increasing his chances of survival. He searched the screen for tells, but the fixed picture relinquished none.

"How are Cass and Veronica?"

"Ms. Cassidy will wake up shortly. Ms. Santangelo's surgery finished several hours ago. She's resting now. As per our agreement, she's being given the best of care available." From his brief encounter with the cockney Mr. Orderly in charge of the clinic, Doc. McPayne, John harbored some doubts on that, but the Auto-Docs did good work. They had on him, at the very least. "If that was everything, I believe you have a task to complete."

"Wait a sec." John's voice lashed out across the wind-battered shore. The sun was fully above the horizon now, but John still shivered when the wind buffeted his drenched form. It wouldn't be wise to remain so close to the Station and Camp Golf for longer than strictly necessary, even with the spare stealth-boy he'd stashed with his gear.

But he'd be damned if he let House treat him like a puppy on a leash, to kick or pet as he pleased. Employer or no employer.

The Securitron spun on its single wheel. "Yes, Mr. Doe?"

"What do you care of a rotface bunker in the middle of nowhere?"

"I assumed you, of all people, would be eager to eliminate more ghouls for the good of the community."

"I am," John conceded. _'Fucking zombies'_. "That's not my point. How does it solve the mess in Freeside?" _'How does it stop the massacre I started and should be resolving right the fuck now?'_ He let his glare convey the last part. House huffed.

"Think more broadly, Mr. Doe. To pacify the slums, we'll need an enticing enough carrot to offset the proverbial stick. And like every nation, Vegas needs to eat. At the moment, Freeside cannot sustain itself without the trade from the NCR and contraband, if barely that. My Strip would face hard times as well should the Crimson Caravan Company and the Brahmin lords suddenly ground their caravans on the border, unlikely as that scenario is. Those are shackles I cannot accept."

"It's not going to do much good if half the damn city's burned to the ground by the time we get to it!"

"You're being overdramatic, Mr. Doe," House scolded. "I have my eyes in Freeside. So far, the fighting has been largely restricted to the gangs. The debacle at the Chapel has undermined the Van Graffs' reputation and many of the smaller players have decided to exploit the opening you offered them. We still have time to rig the game further in our favor."

"Shit." John pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling violently. House just waited. _'Son of a –'_ "Fine. Have it your way. How do we fill Freeside's belly?"

He could almost hear the smile in House's voice. "There are several viable alternatives. All of them are hazardous, expensive, time-sensitive, or a combination of the above. I've picked the likeliest to succeed, but for the next stage to begin, I need you to shut down that reactor first so that it'll stop polluting the water used to irrigate the Sharecroppers Farms. We'll talk again when you're done. Have a good day, Mr. Doe."

With another crack of ozone, the Securitron was gone, leaving behind only a deep track line in the sand.

0 * MiA * 0

Cass' hands curled around the handle of the briefcase, the sweat in her palms sticking to John's note in her other fist. The briefcase was the only thing resembling a weapon she had, besides her fists. Both would at best bounce off the robot's armored chassis. She felt panic bubbling and squeezing her chest as her fight-or-flight instincts urged her to do what she couldn't.

"What does it mean I gotta stay in, you stupid bucket of bolts?"

The Securitron starlet's red-lipped smile didn't waver an inch. "It's just Mr. House's disposition, dear. He knows what's best."

"So what, am I under house arrest?"

"Those are harsh words. Just enjoy the Lucky 38 until your sugar gets back. Oh, if my heart didn't belong to Mr. House already." The starlet's vocalized sigh sent a chill running up Cass's spine. "Forgive my saying so, but from girl to girl, you look like someone who could use some distraction. Our lounge bar on the fifth floor offers the finest selection of drinks in the city. Feel free to enjoy, the tab is on the house."

Cass glared but despite the urging, she didn't make a move around the robot for the door. The Securitron wasn't the only bucket of bolts on the floor. If the ghost stories she'd heard before she stuck her neck into this mess weren't enough, flashes from earlier in the day, of how they reduced an entire floor at the Tops, stalled her feet.

' _Bastard doesn't even bother denyin' this's a goddamned kidnapping. Fuck! Who cares if I'm an NCR citizen, right?'_

For a moment she just stood there, among the rows of slot machines and stools taking up a good chunk of the ground floor of the Lucky 38.

' _Where am I even goin' like this?'_

She took a steadying breath, willing her legs to move in any direction that wouldn't end with her flambé. The very air added to her disquiet. It wasn't that it was too dry or humid, because it wasn't. Rather, it tasted better than anything she could remember in the long years of sun-beaten highways and sudden storms.

But maybe because of that, it felt _wrong_ to breathe between those bright and pristine walls. As if the air was an unwelcome guest, one shoehorned in on short notice and not given the chance to settle in. She felt an intruder herself, every action weighed down by a dozen prying eyes, judged and found wanting.

She tried and blink away the disorientation, then forced her feet to move. Back to the elevator, back behind the glass doors embossed with the star-circled Thirty-Eight. Her finger hovered over the panel, part lingering agitation over the death-trap she was in and part the building pressure behind her eyes and the background ring in her ears. Fuck Sarah Lyons and fuck her flashbang.

She reached for the button that'd take her back up to the suites. Maybe the syringe on the bedside table would make it all go away for good.

She pushed the button for the fifth floor instead, labeled as _Lounge_. The elevator started climbing with barely any rocking.

' _Keep only to the poison you know. Atta girl.'_

If the ground floor had been gambling temptation frozen in time, the lounge was mesmerizing alcoholic dissolution with an undercurrent of nausea induction. Every surface was spotless, not a speck of dust in sight. And the damned thing revolved, of all things.

It also offered the first view of the outside since she'd woken up, and plenty enough to compensate for the temporary lack, with change to spare. A full three-sixty, ceiling-to-floor windowpane with a continuous balcony speckled with Mojave dirt. And beyond it –

Despite everything, Cass had to pick her jaw off the floor when she remembered where she was. She walked up to one of the glass doors, then out on the balcony and clamped one hand on her hat as the wind tried to lift if off her head. The sounds of the Strip, of hundreds of people going about their merry business, traveled up to her, a drone muffled by distance and punctuated by remote bursts of gunfire.

She gingerly approached the railing, the cautious part of her – for once heeded – urging her to take extra care like for every structure a couple of centuries this side of the nuclear apocalypse. But the tiled floor didn't give out under her and Cass took a deep breath as her eyes ran wild on a blue sky that seemed close enough for her to grasp at the odd cloud, all the while filling her lungs with the wind blowing in her face. That didn't taste of something sitting for too long in an air recycler.

She smelled the smoke before she saw it.

It rose in a dark pinnacle far to her left. Almost pressed against the outer wall of the city, it obscured a slice of Freeside beneath it. Being so high up disoriented Cass for a few seconds. Then she picked out the neon signs of the King's School and used it to orient herself.

She'd made sure to memorize all the major gangs in Freeside and their turfs when she led her caravan into the Mojave water business. That was Van Graff territory burning, unless things had changed. Or rather, the territory of one of their gofer gangs covering the production and distribution of all kinds of shit while the Head Mafioso Bitch and her fuckface family back in Reno kept their hands into the energy guns trade.

"It's been burning all night while you napped, missus."

Cass twisted around, a hand reaching for a gun that wasn't there. A Mr. Handy floated a few steps behind her, just short of crossing into the balcony. One prong held a glass of whiskey with a big chunk of ice floating in it. The second, a bottle, the label's paint fresh and unblemished, like the Mr. Handy's chrome dome. Its third prong was empty of murder devices as well.

"A whiskey on the rocks for you."

Cass hesitated, but old habits die hard and she'd be dead and buried before she refused free booze. She set the briefcase on the nearest cocktail table: the stacks of caps inside rattled. Then she took the offered glass and sniffed at it.

"Ice?" She lifted an eyebrow. "You take me for a pansy?"

"I take you for a girl who appreciates her hooch but never tasted the best quality stuff, missus. Try it." The Mister Handy bobbed its immaculate chassis. "I've been dying over here to make a single drink all this time. All the spirits in the world and nobody to serve them to. Trust Mr. Cork, missus: those dunderhead purists all are full of hot air, chugging down the stuff like it's going out of style. Some good ice brings out the best aromas."

She gave Mr. Cork a disbelieving look, then shook her head and downed the glass in one go. The ice was chilly against her lip, but the whiskey wasn't the watery shit it became when some halfwit dropped a couple of cubes in the glass to style themselves classy and mysterious. Good shit. _'Hell, great shit, ice or no ice.'_ It washed down her throat with a familiar burn that didn't quite rinse away the sterility of the air inside.

"You don't drink like you enjoy it, missus."

"It's the ice." She grimaced. "What do you know? First time you served anyone in ages. Your words, not mine."

"And there was a time this was a proper casino, missus," Mr. Cork replied unabashedly. He refilled the glass when she motioned him without wasting a drop. "And I, a proper barman. I've seen my share of drunks fleeing from something or another and all the ways they take to get there. It only lasts until you wake up with a hangover and your pockets empty."

"No shit, wise-ass."

The next minute stretched by in silence. Cass stared at the smoke and the city beyond, not really looking at anything, her thoughts a murkier mess than the stain in the sky. Finally, she glanced over at Mr. Cork. The bot was the picture of servile stillness, save for one of its three eye-bulbs, fixed pointedly at her.

"Don't you have anywhere else to be?"

"You're my only client, missus. And I don't think the other missus in the med-bay will be fit for a stiff drink anytime soon."

Cass blinked, then almost slapped herself.

Veronica. She hadn't even asked after Veronica. Or John either. Her free hand uncurled, revealing a crumpled scrap of paper, his note to her urging her to leave the Lucky 38. Like a panicky fool, she had followed his advice, grabbed the briefcase with the ten-thousand caps and tried to get out of House's turf in a hurry. Try being the key word there.

The whiskey smothered the panic now, leaving ample space for guilt to fill the void and clamp its fangs into her like a fat leech.

Where was she going? Where could she even go, with the Van Graffs out to get her? She had only thought of fleeing, that was the long and short of it. Thought of herself, without really thinking much at all. Big fucking surprise. Take the money and fucking buy it out of there, her instincts still screamed inside their alcohol cage.

She did the same after Mom died. That's what her dad would have done too. That's what he did when she was a pipsqueak, probably, only to dick around Cali and God knew where else, but never stop by, not even for Mom's funeral. He went about filling more coffins, the rumor mills had it, but he couldn't bother to show up to put a single one in the ground and say a _fucking_ word.

' _Stop it. Now ain't the right time. Focus on the present, the livin' and the dead, not some fuckin' ghost.'_

Mr. Cork didn't refill her glass when she held it out.

"I don't think it'd be good if you dropped by Doc McPayne's with any more of this in your system, missus." At her pointed look, the barman Mr. Handy bobbed in place. She swore she saw it roll its eye-bulbs. "Mr. Orderly models have a… flexible behavior by design. To deal better with the controversy of their profession, you see. They tend to become overzealous, at times. Being a barman is so much easier: one just needs a firm hand and a good ear."

0 * MiA * 0

John was starting to regret erring on the side of caution with the Rad-X.

Before the duo of Securitrons and he incinerated the golden geckos infesting the entrance to Vault 34, John had guzzled down a large dose of Rad-X. The Pip-Boys' geiger had gone nuts a hundred feet away from the cave's mouth and the effects on the local varmint had been clear as day. To be thorough, he also had them bust the clutches of eggs lying about, but that was not the point.

The point was, Rad-X made him thirsty. The miracle tablet's active ingredient bonded with the ionized particles flowing in his blood and even went to actively search for the irradiated molecules inside his cells, picking them off before they could do any real damage, at least short term. His freak physiology may take care of the rest – though a dose of Rad-Away afterward didn't sound too extreme – but all the shit the Rad-X took out was filtered by his kidneys, begging to be expelled from his body. Hence why half his canteen was empty already and his current predicament.

He really needed to stop and piss.

The scraping and plodding of naked feet and flapping boots echoed all around him in the narrow corridors of Vault 34. Growls bounced off the walls, clashing with the whirring of laser gatlings and the detonations of grenades growing fainter as he delved deeper in the infested radiation pit.

He'd left the Securitrons by the bottleneck of the entrance as a lure for the healthy rotface population of the Vault. Novac had taught him the zombies were lured by sound as much as by sight. The Securitrons were more than well equipped to mow them down as they charged through the choke point, while their bulk would have been a terrible disadvantage in the darkened, narrow confines John was navigating. Meanwhile, he'd sneak by and avoid being swamped from all directions. He didn't care to repeat his experience with the Legion, only at the hand of feral freaks.

A sudden bang had him level the SD3 at a nearby window. Bathed in the green light of his night-vision goggles, a couple of gnarled ghouls clawed and gnawed and the plexiglass, a scene of utter destruction behind them. The scraps of white lab coats still hung on them, lined with their Vault's number. The bang echoed again, then once more as the broken Pip-Boy's on one of the ghoul's wrist smacked the plexiglass.

He considered putting one into them. His finger almost squeezed the trigger. Then he started moving again, past the closed door separating them. The growling and slapping of limbs on the wall followed him until he turned around the corner. Warning signs and hazard sigils were still distinguishable all over the door.

' _Priorities, John. First stop the leaking, then clean house.'_

He followed the map House had uploaded to his Pip-Boy until the echo of the Securitrons' dirty work faded completely. He slowed down then, painfully aware of the faint echo of his steps: he'd rather get the jump on any rotface than the other way around. Yet none appeared before him. He didn't dare hope the Securitrons' lure had gotten all of them.

What he found instead were working terminals and rotting corpses to attest that something went really pear-shaped in this Vault as well at some point. He skimmed through the records quickly, looking for useful information on the reactor. Instead, he learned of an overgrown population rioting again and again over firearms control over the years, then of a period of relative peace that lasted several decades after the rioters left en masse.

That came to an end when the reactor suddenly started leaking and the Vault's own automated systems locked the dwellers in to be exposed to the radiation. The last note he found on a technician's terminal, dated 2274, raved of ferals stalking the halls, the Overseer locked down in his own quarters and one of the scientists gone missing just before the Vault sealed everyone else inside.

 _That bastard Haversam tampered with the systems. He went bonkers and left us all to die here like beasts. The Overseer left us all to die. God, please -_

At that moment, John regretted not having wrung the rotface-lover's neck when he had the chance in Novac. He loaded all the logs there in a holodisk, then pocketed it and left the dead techie at the desk alone once more.

He shot down the first ghoul stalking the corridors before it even noticed him. So he did for the second, and the third. She SD3 was a compact, well-balanced weapon that felt like an extension of his arm the moment he picked it up in House's armory. Precise 9mm bursts tore into the zombies like they were ripe fruit, but there was nothing like a complete silencer and echoes carried far in the Vault's confined spaces.

The SD3's last mag clicked dry in the corridor leading to the Overseer's office. A bunch of zombies had made the space up to the sealed door their squatting grounds. Most of them donned the Kevlar armor of Vault-Security, but under the cracked visors and askew helmets, their eyes were black and their faces as rotten as any rotface's John had ever killed.

They were also bum-rushing him, just like in Novac, outside the McBride's ranch. This time, however, Fritz was ready in his hands.

The Hyperbreeder hummed with power and lances of red laser fire streaked down the corridor, slamming into the lead ghoul. Twin shots burned through its vest and the boney body underneath it, igniting the dry flesh into a bonfire straight out of a celebration night. The thing thrashed about, its growls turned to screeching wails. The next shot put it out of its misery.

John squeezed the trigger again, advancing towards the ghouls rather than retreating. Fritz answered, consuming the freaks, spearing through them, turning their bodies into piles of scattered ash. The switch was flipped and triple beams flashed out as he stepped over the first bodies. The stench of cooked flesh expanded in thick clouds, almost too much even for his used nose, but in the green filter of his night-goggles, the zombies were even more disgusting, their eyes and open maws glowing a sick yellow-green. Just like Jason Bright.

Clarity wrestled down the combat fever just as the Glowing One burst with energy. The wave of radiation rolled over him like the tide, sending the clicking of the Geiger counter into overdrive. Nausea gripped him, but John shook it away. The Glowing One leaped, its hands out to grab at his throat, the mouth of brown teeth impossibly wide under the security helmet.

John's body twisted and Fritz's stock slammed into the side of the Ghoul's head, just where the helmet ended under its ear. There was a loud crack as the buttstroke connected, then the helmet crashed into the wall a heartbeat before its owner did. Its jaw shattered, its neck nearly broken, yet the Glowing One still thrashed about, one hand clawing at the flat wall for a hold that wasn't there.

It had been a woman, at some point. Tufts of knotted, grayed hair still cascaded from its blistering skull, falling over one of the hateful, mindless eyes. John put three laser beams right between those eyes. Then he turned and vomited to the side.

As the hacking software House had installed in his Pip-Boy got to work on the door to the Overseer's office, John withdrew a dose of Rad-Away from a pocket of his tactical vest, pushed the sterile needle into the crook of his arm and watched as the rad count on the Pip-Boy's screen slowly dipped to bearable levels as the pressure in his bladder increased once more.

The terminal chirped in success just as he stowed the empty sack back in his vest. The Overseer, or what remained of it, was waiting on the other side of the door. It was sitting at its circular desk under a cold, clinical light guttering from above. A veritable multitude of cans and empty water bottles were sprayed all over the floor. Slightly less numerous were the bottles Rad-X and empty bags of Rad-Away scattered about. The face staring out at John from under the shattered visor of a radiation suit wasn't exactly ghoulish: burns and blisters covered nearly all of it, but the eyes still sported an iris and not all the cartilage had fallen off. It still made for an ugly result, one that didn't fail to contort in surprise and fright at John's presence.

"How – Who are you? Who let you in? Has Haversam come back?"

John looked around, his expression darkening. "The automated systems reset three years ago," John said. "The front door is open." The ghoul drew up on his chair, its hands still hidden under the desk. "Never mind. How do I shut down the reactor?"

The Overseer tried to hobble on its feet. John noticed then it was missing its right arm from the elbow down, the suit taped close around the stump. Its other hand held an N99 in poor conditions.

"You… whoever you are, go back. You cannot shut down the reactor. This is our home. My people's and mine."

John scoffed. "Hell of a job you did protecting them. How long is it since you opened this door? The last pantry ride?" John stepped away from the entrance. The Overseer – the name tag on the radiation suit read _Horowitz,_ but John didn't particularly care – visibly started then, as the carnage and ashes in the corridor came into full view. "They were here for you, weren't they? Trying to get in and show how much they appreciated your efforts in dealing with the emergency." John kicked one of the Rad-X bottles and sent it banging against the base of the desk. The Overseer winced. "Tell me. How did they like it when you hoarded all the anti-rad medicines and shut the door behind you?" He nodded at the ghoul's missing arm, then at the yellow bones abandoned in a corner, nearby a sawbones splattered in blood so dry it was crumbling. "Not well, I'd say."

"You don't understand," the Overseer stammered out. Its eyes, dark and bulging with congealed blood, were fixed on Fritz. "Someone had to retain its senses, for when the automated systems would unlock the doors. There wasn't enough food or medicine to go around, and then they started to go mad, one by one, until everyone was a shambling wretch or dead. I – I had to make sure someone would live through this."

"And who better than you, right?"

The Overseer licked where its lips once were. "Look, you can take whatever you want, okay? I have the password to unlock the armory and there's stuff there someone like you would really like. But you can't shut down the reactor! All the energy it's producing goes to the water pumps and if those stop working, the whole Vault will be flooded! Vault-Tec's mandate states that – No, wait! Please!"

John squeezed the trigger and the top of the Overseer's head flopped on the desk, resected by a single laser lance from the rest of its body.

"Fucking coward." John spat on the body, then kicked it off the chair it'd slumped on. The few logs he'd read spoke of a tempting amount of weapons stowed away in the Vault's main armory, but everything would be irradiated to hell and back. It'd already be a pain to scourge and clean his equipment after he trekked back to Vegas - unless House had yet another task ready for him, in which case John was really tempted to tell him to sod off, language or no language. And House's armory was already more than egregiously supplied.

' _The again, there's never too much gun.'_

The Overseer's terminal was already open. As the Overseer's desk platform rose from the floor to reveal the emergency tunnel leading into the main reactor chamver, John helped himself to another double dose of Rad-Away and Rad-X, eyed the Overseer's personal bathroom with a promise and then descended into that radioactive hellhole trying to outrun the mad clicking of his Geiger counter.

0 * MiA * 0

When Mr. Cork denied her the alcohol, Cass swiped away a packet of cigarettes from a briefcase left on one of the lounge's tables. She smoked the morning away, toying with the butts and stealing glances at the ten-thousand caps briefcase from time to time. At some point well past midday, she threw the handful of butts over the railing and left the lounge.

A duo of Securitrons was stationed just outside the elevator door on the clinic's level. The sudden shift between daylight and the artificial, cold lights of the underground medical bay stung Cass' eyes, rushing her headache to the front. Nobody stopped her from entering. If the Securitrons could snigger, they probably would.

Twenty minutes later, as Cass buttoned her shirt back on after a rather forceful check-up from Doc McPayne, Veronica certainly was from her bed.

"Your liver is in abysmal conditions, lass," the Mr. Orderly droned, "and I'm almost afraid to see what your blood exams will turn up. Now, all that's left is the gynecological. Sit on the exam table."

Veronica failed to muffle her guffaw.

"Keep those fuckin' prongs away from me before I turn you into a toaster!"

Doc McPayne fixed three narrowed eyeballs at her. "Stop being irresponsible, lass. Considering the general ignorance on all matters hygienic these days, the chances you've picked up some form of infection or venereal disease – Hey! Hands off the medic!"

Cass gave one of the eyeballs a good shake. "One more word and you'll know how it feels to burn bread every morning. Clear?"

The Doc huffed and swatted her arm away with a prong, but floated to another section of the clinic, muttering gibberish under its breath.

Veronica was red in the face and hugging her sides when Cass turned to regard her.

"I'm sorry. It's just –" A cough cut her short, followed by a few short others. Cass walked up to the younger woman and held her by the shoulders until it was over.

"Water?" Veronica nodded, tears in her eyes. Cass went to the nearest sink, where one of the pink-dyed Mr. Handys handed her a clean cup. Veronica gulped it down greedily, so fast some of it dribbled down her chin. Cass wiped it away with a corner of her sleeve.

"Damn girl, you're a mess." There was no denying that. The left half of her face was one purplish bruise hugging close to her bones and drooping low over the eye. The hospital garb left her neck bare and there was no mistaking the finger-shaped bruises there, nor the slightly croaky quality of Veronica's voice. One arm, the one she'd wear the power fist on, was splintered from the elbow down and resting gingerly on top of a soft cushion. But still, Veronica pouted.

"Yes, mom."

"I'm bein' serious here, pipsqueak."

Veronica's eyes shone with relief then, a strange smile spreading on her face. "I know. Thanks. And really, I'm glad: after that mess at the Tops, I didn't think you'd be so accommodating."

Cass gave her an odd look and patted her sane hand. "Why wouldn't I be? It ain't your fault that Lyons bitch dropped by to bust our party."

Veronica winced, then looked away to a table on the other side of the clinic. Two bots floated around a strange suit splayed over it, a cross between a catsuit and some sort of stripped down armor. They poked at it with tools and other paraphernalia Cass couldn't begin to put a name on. Veronica winced again as one resected a plate of armor from the chest area, baring the tubes and circuits underneath.

"Hey! Watch out with that, it's delicate!"

The bots didn't pay her any mind, their eye-stalks fixed on the task at hand.

"That yours?"

Veronica nodded, somewhat hesitant. She studied Cass for a moment and opened her mouth to speak. Words came out only a few moments later. "It's a present. Something I worked on with someone important to me, once." That strange feeling of being an intruder reasserted itself over Cass for a moment then, if for wholly different reasons. Then a smile spread across Veronica's face. She massaged her splinter and chuckled. It sounded forced to Cass, especially with her eyes fixed on her, part begging, part searching, entirely pitiable.

"If not for it, I'd be much worse for wear. Well, that, and these Auto-Docs." She pointed at the five booth-like pillars lining one of the shorter walls of the clinic. Cass' eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. Veronica's next chuckle was more sincere.

"That's… Jesus, that's five of the fuckin' things. Not even Vault City has that many, and those are spider-like, quirky shit with creepy arms."

"I know, right? The security bots out of the door kind of ruin the mood, but beggars can't be choosers." Her voice turned dreamy. "They're really miracle machines. I've never seen an advanced model like that. We don't have that kind of tech in the Brotherhood."

It was like a bucket of cold water had been dropped down her spine. She heard the racket of a chair hitting the floor, then realized she was standing, a couple steps away from where she'd been sitting. Her hand hovered at her hip, where a gun should have been, but wasn't there.

"The – what? What the fuck did you just say?"

She didn't register the expression of shock, hurt and betrayal on Veronica's face. Or maybe she did and that was why a drum started beating inside her temples.

"But – I thought John told you. After what Sarah said at the Tops, didn't he –"

"He didn't. Not a word." _'That – idiot. Moron. Fuckface.'_ The words choked in Cass' throat. She licked her lips, finding them dry. Something stirred in the pit of the stomach, warm and bitter as the whiskey she so enjoyed. "I was blind and deaf in that clusterfuck. And he'd already fucked off when I woke up."

Veronica stared at her hands, hunching over slightly. "Oh."

A faint ringing started echoing in Cass' ears. A thousand voices speaking a thousand different things as one, from drunk retellings to official speeches to the wails and cries one afternoon in Shady Sands when the earth shook and she believed, for a single moment, that the world had come to an end again.

"Cass?"

"You deceived us."

Veronica met her eyes. The shadow of a smile played testingly on her lips. "Only a little?" She tried. Cass' hands shook. "I didn't lie about the Followers, or the children-pregnant thingy. I just… omitted a couple of things?"

"Oh, really? You didn't think being a fuckin' terrorist was worth mentionin'?!"

Veronica recoiled on the bed as if slapped. Part of Cass only wanted to step up and do just that. "Hey! I was too young to join in the Scourge. I'm just a Scribe. So maybe we can agree I'm a terrorist by proxy?" Her eyes flitted over Cass' shoulder, to the Securitrons outside the clinic and unmoving. "Indirect representation?"

"Stop with the fuckin' jokes! The Brotherhood blew up the fuckin' Congress! I was there in Shady that day!" Her throat hurt, the ringing in her ears loud enough to almost drown out her own words. "You killed and enslaved thousands, and for what?! Some piece of Enclave junk tech you had a hard on for?! What the hell, Veronica?!"

"I'm sorry!" the Scribe pleaded. For a moment, Cass was hard-pressed to relate the desperate-looking young woman with the inhuman steel behemoths that nearly burned and trampled the NCR to the ground. _'Looks can be deceiving. Looks_ are _deceiving.'_ "I'm sorry for tricking the two of you. Cass, please. Just let me –"

She didn't. "Oh, this is rich." Cass threw her hands in the air and started pacing. She knew the robots and hell, maybe even the Creep himself were watching her, but she was past caring for that shit. "You're sorry?! Why don't you tell that to the poor fuckers your Brotherhood used as cannon fodder?! Whose neck you put in a slave collar?! You forced families and friends to shoot each other for the glory of Jeremy fuckin' Maxson! That's – That's as fucked up as the fuckin' Legion!"

"I never did any of that! That was Elder Maxson's doing!"

"And you followed'em like fuckin' cattle!"

Cass coughed then. Her throat stung, her lungs burned and she felt her heart beat up in her throat. Worse still was the dull ache behind her sternum and the taste of bile and betrayal in her mouth. She wanted to spit it out, but she didn't.

Veronica was looking miserable. A petty part of Cass enjoyed that and wanted to stab deeper. It was a part she felt ashamed of, despite the younger woman's stinging betrayal. The Scribe's voice was the closest to a whimper she'd ever heard her. It sounded wrong from the strong-willed woman who had punched a Van Graff goon straight out of a window.

"We did." She took a steadying breath and looked up." You're right. That kind of mentality nearly doomed us. It still is. But I want to change the Brotherhood! That's why I wanted to leave the bunker to meet the Followers. There's so much we can learn from them and the Brotherhood... we need to change our ways if we want to survive."

"And fuck if that puts John and me up for court martial for helping a terrorist, right?" Cass stepped closer to the bed, her fists balled up down her sides. "What if that sniper had realized anything, or the garrison at the 188? How long before the Office disappeared all of us because we didn't know your dirty little secret?!"

Veronica blinked, stunned. "I… I didn't think of that."

"No, you fuckin' didn't! You only had a fuckin' exoskeleton under your burlap, right?!" She spun around, glaring at the damaged suit as if she could ignite it just by glaring at it and with that burn all the pain and sadness away. "What is that shit, anyway?" She sneered. "How many collared bastards is it worth? How many families destroyed?"

She heard the bed creak and Veronica fail to suppress a groan. Then her naked feet slapped on the ground and the wounded Scribe was on her feet, cradling her splintered arm.

"Only mine." Her voice was a distant whisper, but it still cracked like a whip. Then she glared at Cass, her expression a near one-hundred-eighty degree from the lost, pleading thing that looked ready to hide under the sheets. "That shit, as you call it, is the only thing that stopped that... that thing wearing Lyons' face from tearing us all to pieces until the Securitrons rolled in. And I didn't see you hammered into a pulp like John and I were. So shut. The fuck. Up."

"Listen, you fuckin' pipsqueak -"

"No, you listen now." Veronica stepped forward and slapped away Cass' accusing finger. "Yes, the Brotherhood blew up the Congress and your gold. Yes, the Elders ordered prisoners conscripted into our army. Most of them are dead now, their Chapters dead with them." At that, Cass looked away for a moment. Veronica pressed on. "I had nothing to do with that. All I can do is apologize for the mistakes of my people. Try to make things right with all the people who died in the Scourge, even if only a little. You can believe what you want, I don't care. I lost everything in the Scourge. My family, my grandad, my -"

The words died on her lips. Veronica turned around and staggered against the bed, her good hand propping her up as she climbed back to a sitting position.

"I was lucky. Luckier than most." She smiled wanly. "I'm still alive, after all. Your Chosen One, Aki Navache –" Cass winced at the venom in Veronica's voice. It was almost a physical force. She wouldn't have been surprised if one of the bots was knocked over. "The Brotherhood took prisoners and forced them to fight on our side. The only prisoners _he_ took, he did to torture them into revealing where our bunkers were. The stories I heard… You know why the press started calling him Iron. Don't dare deny it. Don't you dare _justify_ him: if things had gone differently he'd be sitting on Kimball's chair right now!"

Cass touched her necklace, feeling the familiar chafing of the string against her palm. She used it as a bastion around which she could center herself. "It was retribution."

"It was a massacre!" Veronica spat. "He gassed them! All of them! Man, woman and child! He didn't care, and neither do you! None of you spoke up when he returned in triumph like Napoleon! You hailed a butcher of children your savior and you dare accuse me of things I had no part in?!" By now, Veronica had worked herself up to such a level that she tried to rise again, but her strength failed her. Cass almost moved in by reflex to steady her. Would have, if the rough pain and disgust in Veronica's voice didn't root her to the spot. "Every bunker in California, from the Den to the Boneyard, gone! Only Lost Hills remains, and they too might be dead any day now!"

"We only struck back," Cass replied, but her voice failed her halfway through. "You started the Scourge. Started all this mess so you could have new toys to play with."

"You're such a hypocrite. My people choked on chlorine and nerve gas in their beds, without a chance to fight back! And when the Followers call your General out on his atrocities, they are disproved, kicked out of their homes and exiled. So tell me, who's no better than the Legion?!"

Cass didn't know what to answer to that, stunned at how the tables had been turned on her. So she didn't. Veronica glared at her stone-faced, the bruises leeching nothing from the intensity of her look. Cass' palms itched like they did in Novac when John was being an asshole. She held her fists flat down her sides, however. She wasn't about to hit someone so banged up already. The effort made her shoulders tremble. Maybe Veronica took that as a sign of weakness. Maybe she didn't.

They held each other's stares for what seemed like ages, but no matter the younger woman's stubbornness and determination, Cass had more than a decade on her of staring down death and all kinds of shit on a weekly basis. Veronica looked away first, chewing on her balled-up lower lip.

Cass took that little, petty victory and carried it with her until the elevator delivered her to the lounge. Mr. Cork didn't dare deny her a drink this time. Nor the one after the first.

0 = MiA = 0

 _First, I'm a bastard. I know. I feel bad for Veronica too. You haven't seen anything yet._

 _Now, I'd like to say that I don't side either with Cass or Veronica in the last scene when it comes to the dispute on the Steel Scourge and who did worse to whom. Each of them presents some valid points with partiality, emotion, and plenty of mistakes and offense, some more subtle than the other. My intention is to have you readers decide who to side with, if anyone, but before anyone starts with stuff like 'the NCR would never do something like that' or 'the Brotherhood would never do something like that', let me remind you that this in an AU timeline where some things differ, while other don't. The Iron General is certainly a great catalyst for these divergences, as any Legend should. On the other hand, anyone who's tried entering Hidden Valley without Veronica ought to remember the Slave Collar. And that's by McNamara's orders, who's admittedly one of the most reasonable guys in the whole Western BoS. Jeremy Maxson? Not so much by a mile._

 _Here, the changes in the story reflect a lot on Veronica as well. At least, that was my intention. In canon, her bubbly personality and naivety hide a deep sense of melancholy and affection. Here, on top of that, the privation and horrors of the Steel Scourge and the Iron General's shenanigans hardened her core to true steel, which comes out sharply at times, like here and after the fight with the Van Graffs a few chapters ago. I just thought it was worth mentioning and clarifying before the Cass-flaming starts._

 _Anyway, I'm having a lot of fun writing the Floating Trio of the Lucky 38 (Mr. Cork the Barman, Doc McPayne, and Ambrogio the Butler). Even I get weary of always writing serious/darkish stuff, so I hope they'll lighten your mood as they did mine._

 _Now (#2), serious-er moment. I firmly believe good writing comes from brutal feedback, from honest dissection and straightforward criticism – an example of the contrary in all fields would be Inquisition, for you Dragon Age buffs out there. Which is why I'm asking anyone who's about to review not to pussyfoot around issues for the sake of politeness or maybe padding my own ego._ _ **Be brutal. Be honest. Be brutally honest and don't save ammo**_ _. Satisfy the masochistic part of me that only wants to be beaten over his head with a manuscript to get better. Thank you all for reading so far (we're way past the 4k views now) and I hope the beginning of Arc II was not a disappointment._


	17. 15) The Longest Day, Part One

**Missing in Action 15) The Longest Day, Part One**

 _or_

 **Balls to the Wall: Declaration**

 _AN: My thanks to_ _ **Emperor Ronce, Aegon Blacksteel, Mandalore the Freedom, Jacob Sailer, Baslias, Guest, Master Doom Maker, Amaturnoveldude, Pro Assassin, PartyPat22, Paladin Bailey, Jem Cottage, cuteb0i99xD, The Desert Dancer,**_ _ **Winding Warpath**_ _and_ _ **WilSquare**_ _for their reviews, feedback and support._

 _We did it, everyone. We DRILLED THROUGH THE HEAVENS! Missing in Action is officially in the top 50 stories by review count here on FF dot net. I was half-tempted to call this chapter "Celebration" instead. Then I wrote the final scene and I felt like an ass to even consider it. Still, a big thank you to all of you readers and reviewers._

 _Fair warning: possibly disquieting scenes ahead. Peace. Alexeij out._

0 = MiA = 0

The sycophant dogs filed from Freemont Street through the doors of the Okra Ballroom & Restaurant without a fuss or complaint, their tails low. Weapons and bodyguards were left at the door, as per orders they knew well. Not that they crossed the doors of her restaurant often before – the place had standards, even for Freeside – but Gloria Van Graff didn't need to repeat herself for the lesson to stick. Ever.

When the future Matriarch of the Van Graff Family called, the dogs came yapping.

They had the restaurant all to themselves, that night. Not that any customers would queue at the door in any case. War ghosted through the streets and thickened the air with the aroma of expectation and promised violence, to the point one could hear it vibrate, if it was quiet enough. Freeside's streets had been near desert since the morning after Jean Baptiste's idiotic death. To walk out meant announcing a certain readiness to pull one's own weight against anybody else with a gun, more so than even before.

Gloria took in the wannabee leaders arrayed before her table, set perfectly in the center of the main dining hall. Their eyes flickered from her to the man kneeling behind her with varying stages of apprehension, bored neutrality and annoyance. The latter kind of look soured the rich taste of the filé gumbo she usually so much enjoyed.

"Thank you all for coming so readily," she greeted them, all insulting indulgence. She knew they had no choice, they knew she knew. The gumbo regained just a touch of its flavor at the shadow of repressed offense and disgust passing over Francine Garret's face. Her brother remained more stoic, only shooting a few, quick glances at the Family's black-armored enforcers boxing them in. "As you well know, a certain shift in the balance of Freeside has occurred. My foolish brother acted with his dick rather than his head, again. Too bad the Kings aren't as complacent as your whores, Francine."

Stupid, wonderful, dickhead Jean-Baptiste. He couldn't have fucked up more if he'd tried. Now, Freeside was about to blow up under them, the deal with the Good Man and the Legion was close to broken beyond repair and what was worse, the Van Graffs' reputation had suffered a terrible, terrible blow. He was lucky, she supposed, that John Doe had killed him. Matriarch Tiaret would have had him skinned alive for such a blunder.

No. He would have never reached Tiaret alive in the first place. Gloria would have taken the satisfaction for herself. One last time.

The kneeling, naked man moaned weakly through his gag from behind her, stealing the audience's attention and focusing Gloria's back. A vicious smile stole over her face.

"Who would have thought that those prissy wannabees had it in them? But you will imagine my surprise when I was told one of my lieutenants, bound by blood vows to my Family, eagerly broke those ties at the first bump in the road and whored himself to the highest bidder. Worse, turns out he'd been doing so for a long time, growing fat with the money the Omertas paid him to undermine my Family's hold on this wreck of a shantytown." She twisted around in the chair, crossing one leg over the other, her arm snaking around the backrest. "What do you say, Dixon?"

The former drug dealer stared back with panicked, pleading eyes, breathing hard through the gag stuffed in his mouth. Dark patches of clotted blood marred pale, waxy skin where he'd been beaten and educated the night before, after Simon and a group of her men stormed his warehouse. Only ashes and burnt timber remained now of Dixon's gang and the building itself, which had continued burning for most of the day.

"Did you really think the Van Graffs would let your little betrayal slide? That I would let it slide?" She shook her head, then her fork speared a wrinkled, oblong-shaped sausage, dripping sauce and nearly burnt to a crisp. Gloria gave Francine Garret an amused look, then her eyes roamed eloquently down Dixon's weak, drug-abused body to the empty, mauled space between his legs. He let out a muffled cry when she took a bit from the sausage. More importantly, she could hear her audience wince. Even some of her less hardened men looked ill.

' _Good.'_

She regarded them one by one then. The Garret Twins, an empty pretense of elegance and style masking opportunistic cunning and rather crass manners; Rotface, with his stupid cowboy hat and too sharp eyes unspoiled by Jet or any other chems he produced; Santiago, his empty, ass-kissing smile and smooth tones concealing a curled viper ready to strike; and Simon, who oh-so-eagerly slipped into the power slot left vacant by Jean Baptiste and whose bold, hungry looks and unwavering loyalty now suggested he was aiming higher, at her king-sized bed and the treasure within.

"The Garret don't go back on their word," James stated, taking a step forward, jaw out and face set in a stubborn frown.

"Santiago is with you, Miss Gloria," Santiago wagged his tongue. He met her eyes only briefly, but his palms were pushed outwards, showing the thin, pale scar left from the blood ritual he took so long ago. "To the very end, and the triumph waiting for us there."

"Those yahoos won't know what hit them," Rotface echoed, his voice like the chopping blade of a butcher. "My boys are ready and locked. Only waiting for your command."

"Your boys are mine, Rotface. Like you are," Gloria corrected, waving a hand when the ghoul swallowed. "And yet, it seems treachery is a seductive beast, or rather, a contagious illness for the weak-minded. Wouldn't you agree, Francine?"

The Garret woman remained stone-faced, save for the burning glare she tried to murder Gloria with. No, that wouldn't do. Without breaking eye-contact with the other woman, Gloria drew a plasma defender from her thigh holster. _'There.'_ The anger in Francine's eyes dimmed under a fresh wave of confusion. It quickly turned into shock as Gloria put a plasma bolt in Dixon's chest. And there – oh yes, Gloria could taste it, and it sent a shudder running down her spine – there was the fear, echoed by the boneless flop of Dixon's body hitting the ground.

"Seize them."

Francine tried to run. A rifle butt to her abdomen took care of that, then Simon grabbed her by the hair and kicked her knees out from under her. He was such an overeager puppy, that he was. Francine kneeled with a sharp cry, one of pain, frustration and sweet terror. James barely fought back when two more Family enforcers grabbed him by the armpits and pushed him down beside his twin sister. Santiago and Rotface, ever the cautious survivalists, edged away unopposed, but not enough away that they couldn't see clearly. Her men made sure of that.

Gloria looked at the late Dixon, noticing how the blob of plasma was burning quickly through his disgusting body. She waved the head of staff forward, the big Creole man unfazed from the educational show.

"Emilio. Clean the mess before he ruins the floor. Put his head into a box for Nero and Big Sal."

"W-What's the meaning of this, you crazy bitch?!"

James Garret had found his voice. A sickening crack of shattered teeth echoed a moment later and James slumped back, voice silenced, blood and snot pouring from his mouth. One of her men propped him up again and grabbed him by the chin, eliciting a choked cry of agony. Gloria scoffed. _'Weak.'_

"What's going on, James dearest, is that your whore of a sister was going behind my back and yours. Dixon has been fucking her, long and hard and for quite some time. And after they fucked, they plotted to stab you and me in the back and offer our heads to the Omertas. Am I missing something, Francine?"

"Fuck you, you incestuous whore!"

Gloria's eyebrow twitched and she tilted her head. Simon immediately slammed Francine face into his armored fist, then went for a repeat. Good boy.

"Enough," she said before the third punch struck. Francine slumped forward, barely catching herself before she hit the floor face-first.

Gloria rose and sashayed across the hall until she stood above James Garret. An amused smile curled her lips. "Your sister betrayed you. Your suckling partner, the person you trusted most in the world, sold you to the Omertas for some flaccid Dixon dick." He glared up at her. The ruined half of his face kind of spoiled the effect, but Gloria knew it wasn't addressed to her. Oh no, it wasn't. She could almost see her words sinking into his brain, bite down on his thought processes like a moray.

"Brother –" Francine groaned, trying in vain to rise from the floor. Simon's boot riveted her there with a stomp, pushing all the air out of her lungs with a painful exhale. "Don't listen – don't listen to this bitcARGH!"

"Easy, Simon. We don't want to ruin James here's party, do we?" Her hand reached for her other hip and then she was presenting a sheathed knife to the bloodied man. "She would have stuck this into your back, then twisted. Sold you out and spat on what your family built. I say, this calls for a punishment."

Something shone then in James Garret's eyes, something that sent another shudder down Gloria's spine. Francine groaned a wordless plea, but James had eyes only for Gloria. When he took the offered knife, the future Matriarch regretted at that moment that the man's pretty face was ruined forever.

As Francine's screams weakened into wet gurgles, Simon stood beside her and whispered in her ear. "Matriarch Tiaret's telegram just arrived. The reinforcements will be here in two weeks."

Gloria hummed appraisingly, only begrudgingly tearing her entire attention away from the gruesome fratricide and the reactions of her shrunk audience.

Two weeks? In two weeks, she would hold Freeside by the throat. A nice, wrapped-up gift for her ascendance to Matriarchy.

Later, after Emilio carried away Francine's body to join Dixon's in Big Sal's present box, she gathered her lieutenants. James Garret looked hollow, shocked, and in pain, his bloodied hand still clutched around a knife that was no longer there. A shame, it seemed she'd broken the poor thing. "Santiago, I want the water pumps in the Spanish quarter secured by tomorrow evening. Simon, the Followers have remained neutral for too long. See to that, and take some of the Garret's wimps with you. Just send a runner for the ambulance: James here will be your way in."

"Ain't that a bit too heavy-handed?" Rotface piped up. If he still had eyebrows or skin to wrinkle, he'd be frowning darkly under the brim of his hat. "I'm all in for a good thrashing and knife gig, but Mormon Fort's smack in the middle of yahoo territory. And if we blow more shit up, you can be sure the NCR and their paramilitary flunkies at Squatter Town are gonna swarm all over the place."

Gloria smiled, putting as much venom as she could in it. "Oh, I count on that. The Kings and the NCR will be out in arms very soon, ready to rip each other's throats out. Actually, you will see to it: send a runner over to Motor Runner. Tell him to sow some more chaos along southern ruins. A hungrier Freeside will be a softer target. Now." Gloria snapped her fingers. "Simon, please, bring in our other guests and the crate with the uniforms."

Five minutes later, two more bound and gagged people were forced to kneel on the lacquered floor of the Okra Ballroom & Restaurant. They were young, the boy more so than the woman, their eyes wide as they stared at some of Freeside's most infamous characters. The acrid pang of old urine from the boy's pants mixed with the stench of Francine Garret's fresh demise. But more important to the gang members and Mafiosos than their bland, panicky features were the NCR colors they wore, and the open crate filled with similar uniforms only a few feet away.

"These are Private Terence Kowalski and Corporal Christine Morales," Gloria said, then kneeled in front of Cpl. Morales and grabbed her tenderly by the chin. A singled finger caressed her cheek. "Poor Christine here recently lost her Ranger husband and was going home on extended furlough. I have good news for you, chérie: you'll see your dearest again very soon. And in exchange, you will give me Freeside."

Christine Morales screamed and screamed into her gag.

0 * MiA * 0

John's trip back from Vault 34 turned out to be a taxing endeavor, to say the least.

Radiation clung to him like a nauseating dwarf wrapped around his neck and shouting in his ears. House's orders to remain beneath anyone's radar meant no shut-eye, only rather annoying detours around redoubled NCR patrols, the odd caravan and a couple of cooking fires that could have belonged to anyone, but his gut told him it was Fiends.

His gut was all kinds of right and House's orders took a backseat to a certain itch the Vault's rotfaces had irked and then not completely scratched. Fritz made piles of ashes and flash-melted corpses of the first group. For the second, he borrowed from the small arsenal he gathered from the Vault's armory.

Frag grenades were just the thing. After that, it was only a matter of mercy-killing the few unlucky ones.

He crossed from the sewers into the Lucky 38's underground levels in the early hours of the morning, then staggered into the Med-Bay, barely paying any mind to Marilyn's cheerful welcome back. Doc McPayne grumbled about "scrubbing the rads off this junk like some cotton-carrying colony slave" until the Auto-Doc closing around John shut him off. He must have snoozed in there, because next thing he knew, the same Mr. Orderly was throwing clean clothes at him and muttering about "delivering his stuff to milord's suite", or something like that.

John tuned him out when he remembered who exactly was recovering in the Med Bay.

He couldn't say whether Veronica was really asleep, or just pretending. The hour was late, but the racket Doc McPayne made would have woken the dead. Then again, she might be under tranquilizers. And she was drooling all over her pillow.

John studied the rise and fall of her chest for a good minute, wondering whether he should just cross the distance to try and shake her awake. Eventually, he shook his head and left the Scribe to her devices - literally so: someone had brought Sarah's eyebot down and the Scribe was bear-cuddling it with her single good arm, not unlike a plush toy. A big, round, unwieldy, metallic plush toy. It was adorable, even if one considered she'd been the one to put the massive dent on its side with her fist.

The elevator gave a jaunty Ding and John walked into the presidential suite, then stopped cold.

Cass was sprawled on an armchair right opposite to the elevator. Her hat was on some antique and finely chiseled console table, right beside a sizeable dent left in the wood by a thick bottle of alcohol.

"You went shopping," she said, drawing herself up. Her cheeks were two rosy tatos, but she didn't slur a word. "Tin cans brought up all your gear and whatnot. Nice shit. Gave you the nicest room too."

He blinked. "You're still here." He almost phrased it as a question, such was his confusion.

"Of course I'm still fuckin' here," she snapped, coming to her feet and walking up to him. "Your corny message was all well 'n' good, but Mr. Creep had other ideas. Oh, and by the way -"

Her face contorting was all the warning he had, then his right hand clamped around her wrist, stopping her fist inches away from his nose. Instinct urged him to wrench and twist it, a move his muscles almost followed through before he stopped himself.

"What the -" Her other palm sailed for his cheek, but hit his left forearm instead. Cass winced and he grabbed her other wrist, pushing both down and behind her back. Muscle memory urged him to follow in with a head-butt, but he didn't. Instead, she ended up pressed against him, her face seething well within his personal space bubble.

"What the hell, Cass?!" He shouted in her face.

"Take a wild guess, fuckwit! What's it, you forgot to tell me Veronica is fuckin' Brotherhood? It just slipped your mind?"

John frowned, then his grip grew lax, enough for Cass to squirrel away. She massaged her wrists and John winced, at a loss for words.

"Yeah?" He tried. "It kind of did. She was in the med bay and I thought you'd be gone before I came back. So, you went down to visit?"

Her glare didn't abate, but she looked away. "'Course I did. And she was all jovial and shit, 'cause she thought I knew and I didn't care." She scoffed, then grimaced. "As if everything her people did could be hand waved the fuck away."

"You said it. It was her people. Not her."

"And you know it, how?! They are fuckin' terrorists -

" - and they want to make her a breeding sow!" he snapped, then heaved a big breath. "Yes, I believe her. It's math. She's what, twenty? Twenty-one? She must have been what, thirteen or fourteen when the Congress blew up? You see a teen doing any of that shit, setting bombs under a senator's ass?!" Cass met his accusing words with a stubborn frown. It made John so fucking pissed.

"You ain't heard the worst of the Legion terror stories then!" She snarled. "Too bad no Powder Gang fucker had a sob story to throw at you before you tore into'em."

John's eyes widened. He almost missed the fleeting look of shock and self-disgust on Cass' face, like someone who didn't mean to speak out loud but whose tongue betrayed them. Then he was seeing red, the pulsating red of loose hair. His left arm blocked another punch at his face.

"Stop hitting me, you - stop!" He shut his eyes and growled in frustration. He'd pinned Cass against the wall, her legs buckling from the chair digging into the back of her knees.

"Or what?!" Cass snarled, struggling. Whiskey-flavored spittle hit his face. Her eyes were burning with defiance and something else. "You gonna hit me, cowboy? Go ahead, show how fuckin' alpha you are!"

"Listen up, you goddamned woman!" He jabbed a finger in her face, freeing one of her arms. "Unless that flashbang scrambled your damn brains, she saved both of our lives in the Vault, the Chapel and against whatever the fuck Sarah Lyons is! So cut her some slack!"

 _SLAP!_

John's face twisted sideways, a stinging pain spreading on his cheek. He growled, an almost feral sound escaping through gritted teeth.

Before he knew it, he was pushing against Cass, kissing her. She gave ground for a moment with a surprised moan, then pressed back, pushing, biting, her tongue exploring. His other hand stopped pinning her to the wall and found the small of her back. She grabbed him by the shoulders shoved him.

 _SLAP!_

His neck twisted again and John paused, blinking away the cobwebs. One hand went up to rub his face. Cass was panting, cheeks flushed, offending hand still outstretched.

"Fuck you."

She grabbed her hat and the whiskey bottle, then chugged down a long sip and grimaced. The door to the closest suite was kicked in and crashed on the opposite wall with a loud bang. She disappeared inside without looking back, leaving John riveted to the floor. The suite's door crashed back shut.

John's thoughts were reeling, drowned by the vehement thumping of his heart in his temples and ears. As he licked away her whiskey-laced breath from his lips, a single string of words managed to push through.

' _What. In. Fuck?!'_

0 * MiA * 0

By the time John staggered into the common kitchen the next morning, Cass was already there, nursing her patented foul-smelling hangover remedy and glaring at the bobbing Mr. Handy cleaning her dirty dishes.

"Oh, good morning, sir," Ambrogio the Mr. Handy butler crooned cheerfully. Two of its eye-stalks extended around its chromed dome, fixing on John like an excited puppy's. One of its prongs absently straightened a red-and-white bowtie wrapped around its chassis. "Last time, sir's visit was awfully short. Shall I serve sir breakfast? I have bacon, pancakes, eggs, anything sir may wish for!"

John's stomach grunted in assent for him, then he walked around the table and plopped down on the chair opposite to Cass. He glanced at the briefcase with the first of House's payments, the one he'd left her. It rested somewhere down the table's surface, askew, as if thrown there.

Ambrogio floated up moments later, holding a plate and the treacherously high pile of food heaped on that in perfect balance on one prong, while the other carried a tall glass of milk. John eyed it warily and was rewarded when Ambrogio nearly threw the dish on the table with a huff, rather than gently set it. Still, John's stomach wouldn't be denied: the next few minutes were filled with deep munching, slurping sips, and Ambrogio's tone-deaf humming.

When John's head finally re-emerged from the platter, Cass deigned him of a look, then gulped down the last of her ungodly mixture. Her eyes were bloodshot, her skin pale. John rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, then sighed.

"Look, about last night... I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "Don't be. I should've screwed you. Too late for that now."

John leaned back on the chair, and choked a burp with a fist. "… Alright?" He cocked an eyebrow. "Wait. What exactly does that mean?"

"Means I'm fuckin' leavin', is what it means." She slammed the empty cup on the table, then stared up at the ceiling, a challenge in her eyes. "Hey, Mr. House! I know you can hear me, there's cameras all over the shop. He's back now from fuck-knows-where land, lift the fuckin' restrictions!"

"Whoa there, slow down a bit. You're leaving?! Seriously?!"

She reached over and grabbed the briefcase's handle with a grimace, pulling it closer. "'Course I fuckin' am. I told you I'd see you to the end of your business with Mr. Dandy-man. Fucker's deader than disco and buried now. I ain't gonna live like a bird in a fuckin' cage for the rest of my life." Her face hardened, eyes narrow before she closed them. "There's some fuckface I gotta put under myself now. Far bigger fuckface than you. No time to play princess-in-the-fuckin'-tower."

John made to answer that, but his Pip-Boy's speaker crackling to life stopped him cold. The stand-by screen on the wrist device flickered, then Mr. House's face appeared, upside down to look straight at Cass with its fixed, mocking smile.

"I can assure you, Ms. Cassidy, that was never my intention." The voice picked up in intensity, seemingly coming from every direction at once, not only John's wrist. "But I thought it would be better to wait for Mr. Doe's return before extending my offer of employment to you."

Cass scoffed, her face clouding over. She found her voice a moment later. "So what, a woman can't make her own choices, but cowboy here can? Way to go, House. Save your breath." She pushed on the table and rose. "Answer's a fuckin' no."

"Common courtesy would suggest you deign to listen to someone you owe your life and continued security to, Ms. Cassidy." Cass froze, her jaw stubbornly set as she glared at the screen, then at John. He could hear the smirk in House's voice. "You know that to be true. If it wasn't the Chairmen at the Tops, the Military Police would have taken you into custody as an NCR citizen. The Van Graffs have bribed more powerful figures than Captain Pappas. On your own, you'll be long dead before you even manage to catch a glimpse of Ms. Van Graff or Matriarch Tiaret."

A few seconds of silence ensued. Cass' palms balled into fists, but her legs didn't move. Her eyes darted around, until they settled on a bottle of wine on the cooking counter with hungry desperation. John frowned, but then House spoke again. "Why don't you sit?"

Cass fell heavily on the chair, then leaned on her elbows. "What do you care, up here in this tower of yours?"

"Ask Mr. Doe what he's been up to this past day or so. Ask him about the deal we struck," House replied. "I'm a philanthropist, Ms. Cassidy. Quite possibly, the last philanthropist left to this world. I care about Humanity's future, as a species. And you, like Mr. Doe here, can help me create such a future that this Wasteland, one day, will only be a half-forgotten memory."

Cass scoffed. "Yeah, as if. That's all really compellin' and shit. Too bad one look out of the fuckin' window will bust your pretty bubble. You've been around for what, two centuries? I don't see any fuckin' utopia around." She shook her head, then grunted. "But as you said, you're the philanthropist. I'm not. And the cowboy here –" She gave him a searching look. "He ain't one either."

"Preparation and opportunity are key to success, Ms. Cassidy. As a businesswoman, you ought to know that, and recognize opportunity when it strikes you in the face." Cass flinched, her knuckles bloodless, hands shaking from a lack of target. John drew up on his chair. "But by all means. If a higher cause is unworthy of you, maybe base, personal interest will change your mind."

"What, caps? I got all the caps I'll ever need right here." She shook the briefcase half-heartedly.

"How droll." House sighed, clucking his tongue. "You want more, Ms. Cassidy. I speak of justice, for your employees. You father's whereabouts. A chance at a better future than squandering Mr. Doe's caps in alcohol and dying in a gutter when your heart gives out or a Van Graff killer finds you. Wouldn't you like to strike at the people who took everything from you? Not only at them, but at everything they built? Take away their power, make them defenseless, and then let them live knowing it was you who pressed the trigger?"

Cass recoiled, as if slapped. John's frown darkened, turning on House, Cass' free hand snaked up, closing around the small pendant dangling from her neck, as if to draw determination from it.

"You're lyin'."

"I am not. I could have thrown you out of the Strip, rather than offer you shelter. And about my information network, Mr. Doe here can tell you how rather extensive it is." John inhaled sharply, then eventually nodded when Cass' eyes flicked up to him, searching. "As a matter of fact, I already know at least part of the reason the Van Graffs targeted you so stubbornly has to do with your father's activities in the past decades. And yes, as far as I know, he's still alive. I can provide you with the official reports and latest sightings later."

Cass' hand found the edge of the table for support, even if she was sitting. Then she made to stand, only to flop down on the chair again.

"Tell me." She swallowed thickly, then looked up at John, her gaze indecipherable. She swallowed again. "Please."

"I see you are capable of manners when you want," House crooned. Cass flinched and John bit down on something his employer better not hear. "But information, like any other good, has a price. An especially steep one, when in high demand –"

"Fuck it!" Cass snapped, shooting to her feet. "Alright, I agree! You tell me where my father is and help me shove a shotgun in Gloria Van Graff's mouth, and I'll work for you!"

House sighed. "That's rather short-sighted, Ms. Cassidy. The Van Graffs are a hydra with many heads. Perhaps, chopping one or two off might be satisfactory, but to put them down for good, it's the body you must target. That's what your father did, a few years back. Quite a spectacular try, but an ill-fated one. Too bad he didn't succeed, but now the opportunity presents itself again."

Confusion took over Cass' face and she wavered. John couldn't hold back any longer. He twisted the Pip-Boy around, staring at House's upside down face. "What the hell did he do to cause that kind of reaction? Cutting singled her out by name when he came after us."

House didn't answer. Cass' strangled moan of horror was enough.

She'd slumped down on the chair again, her hands rubbing her face as if trying to rip it off, fingers curling into the skin of her forehead.

"That. Fucker." Her fist banged on the table, again and again. "Fuck! _Fuck!_ Why, of all the fuckin' people in this blasted Wasteland, why him?! Why not off The Bishop too, while he was at it?!"

"Language, Ms. Cassidy."

"Language?! For fuck's sake! He killed Telemaque Van Graff, didn't he?! The thrice-fucked Family Head of the goddamned Van Graffs! Fuck my language!"

0 * MiA * 0

The hissing and popping of dissolving concrete, mortar, and brick were only a distant echo to John as he squatted behind the nearest bend of the sewer maze running under Freeside. Whatever ungodly concoction House's deposits had vomited up for the task, it seemed two centuries of stagnancy had affected its potency little. Or maybe it had. Now, that was a distressing thought. Remembering the warning he'd been issued, he checked the straps and seals of his full-face armored gas mask for the third time in the last half-hour.

The bloated corpse of a radroach bobbed in the inches-deep stagnant sewage water a few feet away, gory chunks torn off its carapace. John flipped the safety off Fritz and found a few pairs of beady eyes staring at him out of the darkness. He stared back and a few moments later, the skittering of rats' feet on the old walkways grew fainter, until it disappeared in the distance. Then was alone again with the hissing acid and the churning, gut-wrenching heat in his belly.

The worst part was, he didn't know where to start to explain it to himself, much less justify it.

House had finally sicced him on the Freeside turf war, though slogging into a sewer wasn't really his idea of defusing the potential massacre that could explode at any moment. Still, it was something, and if House's calculations were right, his little foray in the heart of the enemy's territory would nip the conflict in the bud. Possibly. Probably. Maybe.

John groaned and shifted around a sharp edge digging into his back, glancing at his Pip-Boy's timer before sighing. Still time to go. House's cameras reported the Van Graff forces were on the move, in several directions at that, leaving their home base rather undermanned. That was why he was sitting with his ass into an overgrown sewage pipe while Cass was out in the open, neck deep in a business she should be miles away from.

John exhaled harshly into the mask. _'Goddamnit'_. Why couldn't she stay in the Strip, rather than accepting House's offer? He could have bargained the information for her in exchange for his next payment, but no, she had to stick her neck out while fuck-knew-how-many DEW-toting bastards were out with a price on her head, or something.

' _And what right do you have to ask that of her?'_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like Jason Bright's whispered softly in his ear. _'Your ghosts are your own. It's her family, and her scores to settle. To force her otherwise would be hypocritical of you.'_

' _Shut up. You're dead, rotface.'_ John closed his eyes, then they shot open before the full memory of the cave he'd found Sunny in could jump him. _'Fuck. Come on, hurry up.'_

He'd slept too little, he tried to tell himself the next time his eyelids drooped. Almost two days of running, stealthing and fighting earned him five minutes more of shut-eye. Yet when the sewer beyond the protective lenses disappeared and he was again in Sunny's cave, she wasn't there. Cass was. Alive. Pressed against him, her back into the wall, her lips hot and tasting like whiskey against his as her tongue –

The echo of a crumbling splash wrenched him out of his dozing and John sprung up, Fritz sweeping in large arches for a target nowhere to be found. In the next corridor, a cloud of dirt rose from where the acid had done its work and destroyed the wall. Ripples widened in the sewage water, where chunks of the walls had disappeared.

John tried to pinch the bridge of his nose, but only brushed against the mask's visor.

' _Fuck. Fuck! Alright, deep breath. I'll deal with that later, there's a job to do. Focus, goddamnit!'_

He'd been spending way too much time with Cass if he swore so much in his thoughts. Indeed, way too fucking much.

The pre-War blueprints were accurate enough. Once John stepped over the last of the sizzling acid, he removed the gas-mask and switched on the night-vision visor to find himself in one of the Silver Rush's storerooms. Metal crates and large lockers marked with the Van Graff stamp were piled in neat, orderly rows stacked up to a low ceiling. Signs were printed in bold letters and numbers at both ends of every row, with each crate stamped with a short, blazing designation. John recognized the pre-War official denominations for laser rifles, plasma casters and nearly every kind of DEW under the sun, as well as more mundane things, like ceramic combat armor, ammunition and MREs.

There was enough military-graded gear in that room alone to equip a small company of soldiers to the standards of the good old US Armed Forces. Only things missing were a few suits of T-51b and a couple of Fat-Man slingers.

' _Thank God for small mercies.'_ John shifted his pack around for easier reach, then started walking up and down the rows and slapping C4 packets and strips all over the place. A few of the crates he shifted were light enough to be empty, but he made doubly sure the ammunition stores were not.

' _Administrative office should be on the second floor.'_ Unlike the NCR at Edward Clark Station, the Van Graff goons were fair game. House only cared for damning evidence on the Family's backroom deals, be them about the attacks of the independent caravans, their rivalry with the Gun Runners or really anything that could be exploited.

The more, the merrier.

John switched to the SD3, chambered a round and started climbing up the stairs. The door at the top was closed, the lock solid and mechanical, but relatively standard. 'Someone's a bit too confident in their security.' Still, it took John a good minute of fumbling with a rake pick before the pins finally aligned with a soft click. The crack of burning ozone enveloped him as the Stealth Boy did its magic, and then John was through.

The corridor beyond was well-lit and John could hear the faint whirring of the emergency generator powering up the Silver Rush further down the corridor. Lady Luck must have been on his side. The door was unguarded, but as soon as he closed it behind him, a black-armored goon with arms as wide as his thigh rounded the corner, adjusting his belt with wet hands. Worse, he was speaking over his shoulder, grumbling more like, and a moment after, another man in Van Graff colors walked into view, a wicked smile on his face.

"Stop being a party-crasher, Etienne," the same man teased. "I don't see what you're so mad about. The Boss Lady's paying us all the same. We reap the same benefits as those other morons with none of the risks involved."

John flattened against the wall. His right fist closed around the knuckly hilt of the trench knife at his belt. The blade cleared the sheath slowly.

"You're a pussy, that's what you are," Etienne grumbled. He'd reached the door by now and was leaning against the wall. "You think storeroom duty's gonna see you promoted anytime soon? There ain't no better chance than a gang war to be noticed by Miss Gloria."

' _Move past now,'_ John told himself as he slid along the wall. _'The sooner this is done, the faster I'm out of here. Blast's gonna kill them anyway.'_

"Miss Gloria? What are you, a twelve-year-old with a crush?" the other guard sneered and leaned against the door. "Oh, I see how it is, someone's aspiring to replace Cutting, aren't you? Well – Hey, you opened the door, big guy?"

John didn't waste time with a curse. Two running steps and his left haymaker connected with the smaller guard's throat, crushing the cry of alarm before it could even form. He spun with momentum, crouching low as Etienne swung a fist like a demolition ball at his blurry shape. For a single moment, the Stealth Boy failed to adjust, and John was visible again. Then the trench knife shredded the unprotected back of Etienne's knee and sailed up into his guard, quick as a thought. It pierced the soft underside of his chin to settle into his skull with a _thuck_.

Etienne's eyes glazed over and rolled into their orbits. The massive body slumped and John had to wrap his left arm under one shoulder to prop him up. The smaller guard was still wheezing on the ground, his lips and face quickly growing a sick purple. John stomped on his neck, then quickly rolled both bodies down the storeroom stairs and moved on. There was nothing he could do for the blood.

He was moving through some equivalent of empty barracks when the echo of a distant explosion reached him, shaking the old building lightly. From the nearest barred window, he spotted an enormous cloud of dirt billowing up over the rooftops. Then another explosion followed the first and automatic fire echoed in its wake, hard and angry and growing stronger.

John didn't need to check his Pip-Boy to recognize the direction. His blood ran cold.

' _Cass. The Kings. Son of a bitch!'_

0 * MiA * 0

The voice of the only newspaper-crier brave enough to venture the streets of the Kings' district of Freeside followed Cass like the pendulum of a grandad clock.

"Legion kicked out of Nipton! General Oliver announces a full offensive to push the Bull out of the Mojave for good! Buy and read the rest the full interview! Only three dollars!"

And again. And again. The kid was commendable for his lungs, but didn't he realize there was nearly nobody around to buy that piece of paper?

She almost pitied him, advertising a story that'd never sell. People thought with their belly. With the I-15 still a critter nest, those bellies would be empty in less than a couple of weeks. Many probably were already, or had never been full in the first place.

' _Soon, the turf war will degenerate in one for food and water. And Freeside will be blown to high hell, all gangs attached.'_

She saw it in the hooded, suspicious eyes of the people she chanced upon on the walkways, or the small throngs skulking in the side alleys, out of sight from the big boys. The realization. One hand always protected their packs, the other hovered inches away from whatever weapon they carried. A few patrolling Kings, their hair an inky mess, were among those numbers.

All hands quickly retreated in fear, and with them their owners, at the sight of the couple of bulky Securitrons tailing her only a few feet away.

' _I'm such a fuckin' moron. Well played again, Cass.'_

What had the Creep said, once she'd signed her deal with the fucking devil? Oh, right. She'd tried to be a smartass.

" _I do not appreciate irreverence, Ms. Cassidy. But to answer your question, it's inherent to my position to always have several plans and alternatives open. To pacify Freeside, the optimal approach would require either an excessive measure of violence on my part, or a level of exposure Mr. Doe better not be submitted to for the moment. His talents lie elsewhere. You, on the other hand, are a businesswoman of some experience and a known face in Freeside. You're accustomed to the ins and outs of those people. After Mr. Cutting's foray, you'll be acknowledged as an enemy of the Van Graffs as well. They will allow you to speak out of respect, where my Securitrons would only be childishly rebuffed."_

Fucking Creep.

Someone had tried and then given up on building a barricade across the width of Vegas Boulevard, leaving only the amputated stubs made of car shells and assorted debris pressed against the buildings at each end and a solitary clump in the middle of the road. The Kings had turned it into a checkpoint of sorts. An air of heavy indecision and confusion seemed to weigh upon the picket there. It spiked abruptly as she approached.

The boldest of the bunch, no older than twenty-five rounded up, lifted an open palm in the universal sign of stop-right-the-fuck-where-you-are. It took Cass no small amount of self-control to keep her hands away from her shotgun.

"What's the meaning of this, ginger? Those buckets of bolts with you?"

Cass breathed in, then breathed out.

' _For Mahpee. For Garland. For Xin and the little tyke.'_

"No, they're out to take in the sights. What do you think? I got a message for Presley King." She kept her voice cool and snarky, even if she felt something small within her wither and die.

The lead King made to ask another question – Cass' caps were on _who from?_ – then his jaw clicked shut and he nodded to himself. He glanced around his mates for a round of silent consultation, then straightened and tilted his chin at the Securitrons.

"Fine, but the bots stay here."

She could have argued the Securitrons could have gone anywhere the fuck they pleased, what with the Dam Treaty and all that, but she was honestly glad to leave them behind. The unfamiliar weight of the Pip-Boy at her wrist was already enough of a constant reminder.

"Fine by me, kid." She nodded with a shrug, then walked up without looking back. "Lead the way."

The crossroads between the King's School and the Blue Suede Chapel, known widely as King Central, wasn't particularly crowded with the slick gang members. A couple of trying-to-be-professional-looking patrols hung about, toting some big 10mm SMGs and even a few assault rifles. A trickle of civilians moved in and out of the Chapel as well, eyes wary and body tense. It made sense, the Chapel was probably the safest place to still crash and eat, even if it was only steps away from a possible ground zero.

Cass could almost breathe it, the promise of violence in the air, growing and stiffening.

Her chaperone led her into the King's School, though Cass had to repeat her story to the guards at the door and even fish out the identification chip House gave her, the same 38-engraved heavy thing John had been given only a few days before. Cass licked her lips on instinct at the thought, then clamped down a bear trap on it, trying to bleed it dry.

' _Nope. Ain't going there.'_

The inside of the School was musty, smelling of hair products, body sweat and just a tang of gunpowder. It was also mostly dark, only a few lamps working here and there. She supposed the Kings would be more prepared than most: large swathes of Freeside had been left in the dark since early morning. She couldn't shake the feeling John's mysterious foray had something to do with that.

' _Stupid, hooch-addled brain. Enough with the fuckin' cowboy.'_

Faded paper peeled off the walls in long strips, intact only around large, framed posters covering most of every free surface. All of them, without fault, starred the same man, the First King, Elvis Presley, in a dozen different garish suits and a pompadour wig. Ridiculous as he may look, even those old posters managed to convey a sense of awe it was hard to describe, but that almost made Cass pause.

The almost became a full pause when she realized her chaperone had disappeared inside a wide set of double doors dominating the wall to the left and that the few Kings in the room where staring at her with a mix of confusion and thinly veiled hostility, the latter especially from the heaviest armed group lounging near the doors.

' _Acknowledged as an enemy of the Van Graffs. Respect. Way to go, Creep.'_

"Didn't I tell you to avoid Freeside like the plague, ginger?"

Cass groaned, then turned around to find the same punk from the Blue Suede Chapel exploiting the few inches he had on her to try and appear intimidating. Gone was the leering smile or the flippancy in his voice from just a few days before. She found little to laugh at even at the missing front tooth. A mirroring frown of annoyance furrowed her brows.

"Yes, whatever. I'm here to speak with Presley King. Do you need me to write it down for you, big bold letters?"

The atmosphere in the room grew colder in a couple of heartbeats. Pacer took a step forward and grabbed her jacket. She spotted the revolver tucked into his belt.

"Are you deaf? I said get the fuck lost, whore, and tell your pimp House the Kings have no time for him." He shoved her away. "Throw her out, boys."

Her knee slotted perfectly with Pacer's squishy ball sack and weener. The punk went down howling obscenities, then half a dozen guns were cocked and aimed at her.

' _So much for diplomacy.'_

"That's enough, boys," a voice embodying the entire South, risen straight out of the Mississippi, spoke. "I taught youse all better'n pulling a gun on a lady."

Cass blinked, then her head whipped around to look at the nearest poster, then back again to the man standing larger than life on the double doors. She had never seen Presley King before, not up close. Her deals took her through Kings' territory only in passing and she'd just caught glimpses of the acclaimed leader of Freeside from a distance.

' _Holy. Fuck. They're like, made from the same fuckin' mold.'_

Presley King chuckled, but it was a tired sound. Then Pacer picked himself up from the floor, red-faced, voice shaking with affront.

"You gonna listen to House's bitch, King? For real? After what he did to us, all the blood 'n' tears of these years?!"

Sharp eyes bore into Pacer. "I don't forget the past, Pacer. I'll never forget it. But we already got one war on our hands: no need to spark another with the Big Man in the Tower by being A-league dicks." Then those same eyes found Cass, piercing her skin until she felt like he was weighing her soul. "I think we have to thank you and yours for that, honey."

Cass found her voice again, working around the bitter taste in her mouth. "That's mostly me. The Van Graffs want me dead something bad. Everyone else, they were just caught in the crossfire."

"I see. I appreciate the honesty."

"Presley, for fuck's sake!" Pacer snarled. "Every word out of her mouth is House's poison! She's got his chip, she's got his damn scent all over her soul!"

"Might be so, Pacer, but I ain't him. I ain't House. I ain't gonna throw out the messenger on the sender's reputation. This is Freeside, not the Strip. Otherwise, what was the point in turning down that sweet, sweet leash all those years ago?"

Pacer glowered and sent Cass a glare that would have put her six feet under if looks could kill, then motioned for the armed gangers witnessing the exchange in tense silence and stormed out of the King's School of Impersonation.

"I apologize for Pacer's manners, honey, or lack thereof. Come."

The King pivoted sharply on his heel. Cass followed. Beyond the double doors, a private theater widened, dominated by a wall-long stage on one end complete with curtains and a full music kit just begging to be used and strummed, from bass to rhythm guitars to drums, all arranged around the mic position, the uncontested protagonist.

The stage was empty of performers, however. A few Kings milled about several round tables pushed together and the array of maps and reports cluttered on top. War table was her first thought. The contrast between the upbeat performers who welcomed her group into Freeside a few days before and the grim, worn faces arranged around said tables couldn't be more poignant even if they tried.

Two Kings standing just inside the doors took her guns, then Presley King led her past the war table to a free spot just under the stage. Two plush armchairs were set facing the stage, a small table heavy with drinks in between them.

A cyberdog snoozed lightly at the foot of the King's chair. She'd seen a few of them in her time in Shady and Vault City, but even compared to those, the King's dog – because there was no mistaking the fond pat the King gave the sleeping animal – looked old and worn.

"Let's sit and talk."

The moment Cass' hand touched the offered chair, however, the cyberdog's eyes shot open and he was right into her personal space, old eyes still sharp examining her, not unlike the King's. _'A dog and his master'_ she found herself thinking as she forced her body not to tense up and her lips not to spout some idiocy like Good Doggie to a beast capable of tearing her throat out in the blink of an eye.

The King simply watched, nursing a glass full of what smelled like peach brandy, another one in his hand still empty. The dog sniffed her pant leg, then circled her slowly. The uneven plodding of metallic and flesh feet echoed in her ears, the transparent dome containing the dog's brain and the eyes underneath always in the corner of her vision.

After a few moments, he settled down by the King's feet with a tired huff. His breath evened out a moment later. At that, the King smiled warmly, nodded at her chair and poured her a glass.

"Rexie here's the best judge of character a man could ask for. If he says you're peachy, then I'm good." He took a sip of his drink. "They say the First King, Elvis Presley, almost drunk himself to death with this sweet nectar. Now, how come a water gal like you ended up on the Big Man's personal payroll?"

She shrugged, trying to hide a grimace. "He's got something I need," she said. The King hummed along, and she elaborated. "Information, and the best chance to see the Van Graffs dealt for good, all heads chopped off at once."

"This is personal, I see. Forgive me for probing, darlin'." Presley King took another sip, then twirled the booze slowly into the glass. "Let's cut to the chase then. What does the Dog in the Tower want from lil old me? I thought the last deal was cut and dry enough: out of sight, out of mind."

Cass took a deep breath, trying to choke the self-disgust before it choked her. "He offers work," she said flatly. "Food and water and work for the people. Your people. He offers you a Freeside free of the Van Graff and their scum… if you agree to sit down at the table with him and the NCR. That's the gist of it."

She had expected him to chuckle, or laugh disbelievingly. Hell, even shatter the glass on the pavement in outrage. Presley King barely blinked.

"Ah, how the tune never changes. He wants my allegiance," he stated simply. Cass felt the eyes of every King in the room on her. "Make the Kings another Family. We refused the same offer almost a decade ago, honey. Now he swings back while we're in a tough spot, setting out a much fatter bait. I can't deny it's tempting. Very tempting… but the answer remains the same."

Cass didn't know whether to be frustrated or relieved. Then she just didn't know, as a distant screech turned into a booming echo. For a split-second, the world stilled. Then the King pushed her to the floor and the walls exploded.

She came to to pain, pain everywhere, face down on the floor. Thick billows of dust clogged her throat and something warm and sticky stung her eyes. Blood. Her own blood.

Cass coughed and tried to find her bearings. She could see shapes shifting, silhouettes and shadows screaming near invisible. Cass reached out for a weapon that, one time too many, wasn't there. She cursed, then wiped the blood away from her eyes and the world grew a bit more into focus.

Someone was growling and howling at the same time. Then came the screech again, louder, angrier. The world rattled, shaken on its hinges, but Cass wasn't thrown away like a rubber doll. She crawled on the floor, her palms stinging as splinters dug deep into her flesh. The echo of the second explosion waned, then gunfire and shouts of _Bears!_ and _Kings!_ and _Presley!_ and _NCR!_ and _Kill'em all!_ returned, feeding off each other until they were deafening. A single cacophony growing closer and distant at the same time.

Her hand touched metal, not wood, and her index found the trigger guard of a gun on its own. Blearily, Cass stared at it, the fine craftsmanship marred by soot and dirt. She blinked, and the carving on the mother-of-pearl handle became clearer.

 _To Presley. From your punk, Pacer._

The growling became an insistent whine and gained a shape as the smoke flowed out through the demolished walls. A dog, no, a cyberdog, the King's, was pushing his nose into something still and long sprawled on the floor. Something clad in a dress jacket that might have been cream-colored once, but was now red-and-brown…

' _Oh… Oh Shit.'_

Gripping the gun as if her life depended on it, Cass crawled to the King, lying face down in the ruin of his School.

0 * MiA * 0

Bereft of his beret, Boone's scalp itched. It had been itching for the past day or so. Ever since he walked out of McCarran, his rejected application balled in a fist and new orders echoing in his head, vague as they were.

No goodbyes with 1st Recon. That left a bitter taste in his mouth. But it was better if even they forgot about him.

The Office had given him no really solid lead to start on, only a cipher to memorize, then set him loose. Until Doe or one of the women reappeared on the radar, he was essentially aimless. So he wandered. The Strip was a no go, even if he had enough money. The Strip meant Carla and he couldn't bear it. Not yet. Not ever.

At first, he moved south. Not to Novac. Only a short way, to Aerotech Park. He didn't see the girl from the tent in Novac there, but many other children were there, playing. A few of them were smiling. He didn't linger. Better that way.

The next stop had been the New Vegas Clinic. The Office had given him some money, but Boone needed little. Ammo and food, nothing else. He'd a bit to spare, a bit Dr. Usanagi was grateful for. Ranger Stella wasn't there, though. Dr. Gannon had kept faith to his word and more. He put her through the Auto-Doc. Two cycles, then she was transported to the Old Mormon Fort to recover. There were only a few beds at the Clinic, each of them in great demand. Old Mormon had more space.

Usanagi told him nobody from the NCR or Ranger HQ had come to take her. Probably lost in a bureaucratic maze. She wouldn't have been the first.

Freeside was as good a place to start as any, he'd told himself. A good place to wait. And that was how he'd ended up carrying spare generator parts for Bill Ronte up and down the Fort.

"Come on," the cranky old man said, slurring only a bit. "The blackout won't solve itself!" Boone only grunted and hurried.

The Followers had been more than eager to have another pair of hands ready to help. Dr. Gannon had guaranteed for him. His discharge papers had won over Julie Farkas and many of the other doctors. Anarchist. Idealists. Boone didn't mind their stance. They had made their vows, he his. They helped more people in a day than he had in all his life. He was nobody to judge them.

Boone handed Ronte the parts he asked for, often times having to guess the man's wordless grunts and gestures. It was a language he spoke well. Kneeling in the shadow of the north wall, they were assembling the fourth, patched-up generator in as many hours. Most of Freeside had gone dark from the early hours of the morning. Much of the Followers' medical machinery needed the power to work. The solution was only a cobbled-together, stop-gap measure. Looking around, even less than a day in the place, Boone felt those words could well describe anything and everything within the Old Mormon Fort. Himself included.

The distant roar of an engine grew nearer. A Humvee's engine, he recognized after a moment. The Followers had repaired one and converted it into a make-shift ambulance. An old jewel, fusion powered and protected from Freeside's looters and criminals only by the group's reputation and irreplaceable services. It arrived and left at regular intervals, rarely stopping, carrying in severely wounded Freesiders every time. Often more than one at a time.

Beatrix Russell, the cowgirl ghoul, climbed down the nearest ramp to the walls two steps at a time. The spurs on her boots chinked with every step. She spotted Boone and waved a burned hand sharply at him. "Enough tinkering, sniper-boy. Extra hands at the gate, it looks bad this time."

Boone had seen her not bat an eye at a man with a piece of rebar stuck in his gut, not a couple of hours before. He nodded. As the informal head of the security detail, she was also his boss, kind of. He'd already learned multitasking was the name of the game with the Followers.

The first explosion warped the skyline beyond the walls as they crossed the courtyard at a jog, drowning the honk-honk of the ambulance. Doctors, patients, even the few Kings hanging at the Fort for extra security stopped dead in their tracks. Boone and Beatrix kept moving. Instincts burned into their nerves screamed that to stop was to die, even with the explosion so far away.

They exchanged a look of mutual ignorance. One of the Kings on the western tower supplied the answer.

"It's the School! They're shooting missiles at the School!"

The gate was fully open by the time the second missile screeched in the distance. The Humvee rolled in, the driver stiff at the wheel. Julie Farkas was already shouting orders, gathering a bare-bones medical team from the available doctors with combat experience. The tail of Dr. Gannon's coat disappeared in the western tower, to gather supplies. Always cool, always on top of things.

A King and one of the guards jogged to the back of the Humvee, carrying a gurney between them. Boone saw figures in baggy, loose clothing approach from the outside at a jog. For a moment, his mind flashed back to the El Dorado Gas & Service, the fight with the Khans there.

Then the King ganger's face was dissolved by a bolt of plasma and laser lances turned the other guard to ashes.

The Humvee vomited half a dozen black-armored figures wielding plasma and energy in as many seconds. They hit the ground already firing. The King on the western tower died, then the two guards and one of the volunteers operating the gate went down in as many seconds. The driver's head, or what remained of it, slumped down on the horn, kicking up a racket.

Julie Farkas and her team had no time to flee. The Van Graff fell on them, punching, slapping, and shoving. The doctors fought back, but were overwhelmed in seconds. They were dragged away, out of the Fort, kicking and screaming.

Boone threw himself behind the old central well, chambering a round in his rifle. Beatrix was hard on his heels, twin revolvers in hand. How she managed to make herself heard over the din of combat, he'd never know.

"Protect the gates! Push those bastards back! Anyone who can't fight, take the patients to the trapdoor!"

Boone put a .338 Lapua in the face of a Van Graff killer, then ducked as a plasma bolt melted half his cover. More Van Graff thugs swarmed the gates, baggy clothes shed to reveal black combat armor. He knew at a glance there were too many of them. They moved in fireteams of four, laying down suppression fire: lasers and plasma set the tents alight as they swept the walls. Small arms fire pinged off their armor and was answered with sheets of laser and plasma. Some disappeared into the nearest tents, dragging out doctors or nobody at all. Another group kicked down the door to the western tower.

Boone breathed, leaned over and put one in the skull of the first thug to reach the top of the walls.

Follower guards and Kings fired blindly over whatever cover they found, but the courtyard was a field hospital. Tents made for flimsy cover. Over a dozen bodies already littered the dirt, flesh melted or vaporized. More were the piles of goo and ashes in scraps of clothes.. None of them were doctors. The leader's voice banished the last doubts Boone held.

"Remember the plan! Take the Followers alive! Alive! Everyone else is fair game!"

"We can't hold here!" Boone said." We need to move!"

Beatrix grit her teeth. "Not until the far side of the courtyard is evacuated!" Then she smirked, sent one thug scurrying, and produced a few sticks of dynamite from her duster. "Up for a rabbit hunt, sniper-boy?!"

Beatrix threw, then screamed. Boone rose and fired, dropping the nearest enemy. The bundle of dynamite bounced off the Humvee, a perfect throw. It detonated with a blast and a moment later, so did the old vehicle's fusion reactor.

The gates disappeared in a ball of nuclear fire, obliterating half a dozen Van Graff with them and trapping the rest inside. Unbearable heat washed over Boone, forcing him to duck. The stench of flash-melted flesh filled his nostrils next, triggering old flashes of Brotherhood Paladins laying waste to NCR ranks. He turned to see Beatrix stagger to her feet, one arm outstretched and barely holding her revolver. The other was a stub flash-melted just under the elbow.

"Heh." She spat. "T-They got me good."

Boone hesitated. The screams redoubled as the Van Graffs reorganized themselves. He thanked God they didn't have plasma grenades as he wrapped an arm around Beatrix and unholstered the Sig-Sauer with his free hand.

Maybe this time, it really would be it.

They reached the western wall unscathed by some miracle, instead. Then Boone glanced at the gate, and saw it was no miracle. Arcade Gannon was circling away from the ruins of the western tower, his white coat smudged with glowing goo, glasses askew on his nose and eyes cold as the plasma caster in his hands rained bolts and death on the Van Graff positions, turning the lack of cover against them.

Their eyes met.

"Go! To the North Tower! Take everyone you can to the trapdoor!"

Boone had no idea what trapdoor Gannon was talking about. He handed Beatrix to the nearest passing volunteer, then sprinted away, checking every tent and cranny, a single imperative overruling his mission parameters. It was suicidal. Maybe it was the last vestige of a selfish quest for redemption. Honestly, he was long past caring.

He heaved an upturned litter and shouldered a limping old man out of his tent, then left him to the first passer-by and took a couple potshots at the nearest Van Graff. The bastard hurled himself into the closest tent. Boone recognized that as the one for long-term recoveries.

The sniper sprinted, aware that Gannon's cover fire was waning, that the rest of the Van Graff forces could push past the wreck of the gates any second. He skirted around the back of the tent, then crouched, flipped the back entrance flap to the side and swung in, gun first.

The Van Graff goon was on the ground, his leg trapped under an upturned gurney, a scalpel buried to the handle in his eye. Ranger Stella was crawling away from the corpse, pushing on her elbows to his discarded weapon. Smoke rose from the chest of the only other occupant of the tent. He'd passed from sleep to death without realizing.

"Ranger," Boone said and almost earned a laser to the face. Recognition flickered on Stella's battered face. "We must go."

She nodded. Too weak to speak, fresh blood seeped into some of her bandages. To her credit, she barely grunted in pain when Boone picked her up in a fireman carry.

He ran, legs pumping with adrenaline. Gannon's gun had gone silent. He saw it discarded, the barrel melted and smoking from overuse. The Van Graffs were reorganizing under the verbal whipping of their leader. It bought Boone a short time, but it was just enough.

He crashed into the North Tower just as the two guards holding the line there were about to bar the door. The guards took Stella between them and Boone doubled over, hands on knees, gasping for breath. He only had a moment, then laser and plasma started punching through the door and into the old mortar and bricks of the opposite wall. Boone swallowed and forced his legs to move again despite the muscles screaming in agony.

A bend, then another. Fresh blood marked the ground, from the patients and the wounded rushed through. The tunnel sloped, leading deep underground. Another bend and Boone nearly crashed into Beatrix. The ghoul cowgirl walked against a wall, waving and inciting people ahead of her to hurry, the revolver clutched in a death grip. An empty syringe of Psycho lay shattered under her booted heel.

A crash of metal signaled the front door finally giving way. Armored feet beat over the old pavement, their echo gaining fast. Boone grabbed Beatrix and rounded the last bend in the tunnel. He caught a glimpse of the tall Dr. Gannon, only a little way ahead, shouting and pushing people past him, into the last room. He was tinkering with something out of sight, remote and detonators in his hands.

Their eyes met again. Boone saw a plead for time there. Only a little more time. He nodded.

The sniper unloaded the Sig at the first shape to round the far corner. The killer went down with a cry and was dragged behind cover, bleeding like a pig. Boone slapped another clip into the sidearm, then Beatrix pushed him away from the wall and further down the tunnel as she sent potshots at the Van Graffs.

He smelled blood. Her stump had re-opened, fresh blood flowing freely from the charred skin down her duster and pooling on the ground. She gave him a look, fierce and weak at the same time, but he already understood. Gannon needed time. The moment he was done, he'd press the trigger. For everyone's good.

"No need for you to buy it here as well, sniper-boy."

Something in Boone reared its ugly head and barked brutal opposition at that, but his legs were carrying him forward and down already. Towards Gannon, then past Gannon. The doctor nodded at him, his face wound tightly in concentration.

"It's the Wild West Show, smoothskins!" Beatrix shouted, leaning over and shooting. Her revolver clicked dry, chambers empty. She unholstered another from her belt. "Come and buy a ticket!"

Gannon stepped away from the explosive charges, eyes flashing with pain and indignation he didn't let his face show. A large trapdoor awaited, a gaping hole resounding with the fading echo of a multitude of steps and whirring wheels. Boone took the remote from the doctor's shaking hands, then pushed him into the darkness below, to safety. He followed a moment later, pulling the hatch closed after him.

Through the last gap, Beatrix Russell flashed him a defiant smile and stepped out of cover, energy fire raining around her.

One discharge from the revolver, muffled by distance and walls. Boone jumped down the ladder, a prayer on his lips, then flew down the steps, taking them four at a time. He barely saw them in the dimness of emergency lights.

Two discharges. The stench of sewage and rot assaulted his nostrils. He saw Gannon's lanky silhouette ahead, waiting.

The third discharge never came.

Boone squeezed the trigger.


	18. 16) The Longest Day, Part Two

**Missing in Action 16) The Longest Day, Part Two**

 _or_

 **Balls to the Wall: Retribution**

 _AN: My thanks to_ _ **Paladin Bailey, Aegon Blacksteel, Master Doom Maker (x6), Helvetica Standard (x2), Jacob Sailer, Winding Warpath (x7), Pro Assassin, WilSquare**_ _and_ _ **Spoderman77**_ _for their reviews, feedback and critiques. Special thanks to_ _ **PartyPat22**_ _, who takes the extra time every time to comb through the chapters for grammar mistakes I'm too dumb to notice._

 _Warning: minor use of Spanish. Mostly scurrilous Spanish._

 _Also, in many ways, consider John's and Cass' Pip-Boys like the screen of another of House's Securitrons. Within a certain range, he can remotely control what appears on it, which can include text, or his own smarmy face._

 ** _Edit 28 - 07 - 17:_** _**PartyPat22** saves the day again._

0 = MiA = 0

The sky above Freeside was turning black and foul with the smoke belching from the King's School and the Old Mormon Fort. People who had abandoned their homes in a panic as the first explosions rang out, afraid the four walls they considered so protective wouldn't stop shaking and just crumble over their heads, found no comfort in their fellows, only fuel for more panic. The peal of gunfire seemed to echo from every street, every quarter, bouncing off the consumed facades of buildings for amplified effect.

Panic unearthed deep-set animosities and sparked shallower ones. It blew the wind in the sails of suspicion and just gave voice to the first half-formed, irrational thoughts to cross the mind.

"The Legion! The Legions has crossed the Colorado! They're here!"

"Fuck you're saying?! It's the NCR! Them bastards from Cali want to take our homes! They killed the King!"

"No, it's the Fiends! House paid them to kill us all!"

Arguments erupted into fights at every turn. The need to find someone to blame for the chaos and the utter disruption in their lives pushed people to ball pointed fingers into closed fists. To make things worse, the common street thug saw the mayhem, whatever the cause was, as a window of opportunity to cut out some neat profits. Dozens of minor gunfights joined the swelling cacophony. People were brained and stabbed for what they carried on their person or what they hid in their cupboards.

A boy, no older than ten, darted through the streets of the Spanish Quarter as fast as his scrawny legs would carry him. He'd dropped the stack of unsold newspapers as soon as the first explosion drowned out his pitch, and was running for all his worth by the second. He kept his head down and went unnoticed by the groups of black-armored criminals pouring into the Quarter, making for the communal farms and the water pumps there.

The boy gave that area a wide berth, flinching as cries and screams and the staccato of rifles made itself heard soon enough, hounding his every step. His lungs were burning, begging him to stop, but he didn't. The streets weren't safe. Only one place would be.

He halted, feet skidding on the tarmac, in front of a half-closed shutter red with rust, and doubled over, hands on his knees and panting. This particular street, usually brimming with energy and overflowing with people out and about on their business, was now crowded with gaggles of uncertain, confused people and huddled families. Many carried all of their belongings. All exchanged heated whispers and looks filled with worry and apprehension.

These Freesiders, used to the daily turf scuffles and variegated endeavors of Freeside's top dogs, now stood still and passive, unsure of what to do. Concern and fear and not enough anger were written all over their faces: it wasn't as much for their futures as for what the present moment and their next breath would hold for them.

The boy breathed, then jumped as the shop's shutter was harshly thrown up into its sheath. His eyes followed its ascension and found the familiar insignia, painted by the Quarter's best self-styled artist rather than composed with the tacky neons the gangs were so fond of.

Miguel's Repair Shop.

Then the boy looked down, and his eyes widened in awe.

A dozen men and women marched out of the shop. Their sombreros were thrown back, revealing grim, determined looks on their mixed Hispanic features, half-concealed as they were under bandanas. Bandoleers filled to the brim with ammunition crisscrossed colorful ponchos and thickly embroidered jackets. Their heavy belts sported twin revolvers and wickedly sharp knives, while broader machetes and lever-action shotguns hung on their backs from more straps.

"The Caballeros!"

"It's the goddamned Caballeros!"

"We're saved!"

As the first voice rung out and the knights in sombreros and spurs didn't vanish like a desert mirage, the boy could feel the air lighten and shift, as if an invisible weight oppressing the crowd was suddenly lifted. All around him, more and more people joined the first cry. The boy did too, even if his lungs still burned from the long run and his legs ached. Hushed, mortified whispers and accusations became resounding cheers. Necks craned as the last of the Caballeros filed out, and the cheers changed, growing demanding and pleading in turn. They asked for him, for the boy's own hero, for the man who'd set things right once more.

The Ghost Vaquero.

Answering the collective prayer of the cheers and shouts, he stepped out. Tall and thin, his skin was that of a ghoul, burned by rads and scabbed over multiple times. From under a wide sombrero, black eyes studied the near a hundred people who'd come to search for protection and reassurance at his doorstep and were now cheering him with twice the enthusiasm and the intensity of a moment before.

The boy beamed, for this, this was the man the Spanish Quarter owed everything to. Yes, the Kings might oversee the water pumps and the work at the communal farms, and they also distributed the food and water to whoever needed it most… but before the Vaquero rolled into town, there were no farms, and the only water pump was a rust-clogged pipe as likely to poison you as radiation.

The Vaquero remedied that, building with one hand and signing an agreement with his smoking gun in the other. It was the Vaquero who guaranteed the Spanish Quarter always received its share. It was the Vaquero and his Caballeros who kicked out Santiago and his thugs, breaking the racket and tearing down the drug rings and other things the boy didn't know the names of.

Sure, the Kings ensured cooperation and maintained order. They kept things running, played good music, and went about looking tough.

The Vaquero and his Caballeros, they enforced Justice.

The boy cried, "Kick their asses!"

A lipless mouth stretched into a rueful smirk under a thin, black mustachio.

"I made a mistake, compadres," the Ghost Vaquero drawled in his scratchy, pitched voice. The boy thought he'd make a great singer, better than the Kings. It carried above the gunfire and above the cheers, riveting the audience's attention to him. "I thought I had put the fear of God in that puto Santiago last time. I was wrong, and now he's taken the Van Graffs' foot so up his culo, his perros wear their colors and he speaks Creole."

Ragged chuckles and laughs. Burned hands closed around the grip of twin revolvers. They cleared the holsters and the Vaquero gave them a spin. Behind him, the Caballeros drew their weapons and blades. Then more people emerged from the Repair Shop, carrying crates and chests between them.

The Vaquero kicked the nearest open, revealing guns, blades, and ammunitions aplenty. And suddenly, the gunfire wasn't as scary.

"Well, we've got bad news for them. This is our home, and we've all worked too hard and too long for the first hijo de puta madre to roll in and say he's the new jefé! Vamonos, muchachos! It's open season on pendejos!"

A roaring cry exploded from the crowd. The boy's voice joined a hundred, and many of the Freesiders who'd been cowering and jittery only minutes before rushed forward to pick up their guns for the good fight. Cheering and shouting, they followed the Caballeros as the vigilantes jogged down the street, setting a fast pace for the communal farms.

As they went, the boy's heart nearly jumped out of his chest as the Ghost Vaquero looked at him and beckoned him over. He swallowed his trepidation and went, hands fidgeting. When he was close, the Vaquero holstered his revolvers crouched down to his eye-level with a clink of his chevrons.

"Carlos, isn't it?"

"S-Si, señor!"

"Can you do me a big favor, Carlos?" The boy beamed and nodded. "I need you to deliver a message for me. You know señorita Beatrix's house?"

"T-the big one where all the Caballeros dug the big hole?"

The Ghost Vaquero chuckled and patted Carlos on the head. The boy's smile could have lit the night. "That's the one. Many friends of señorita Beatrix and I will come from that hole, very soon. I need you to be there when they arrive and tell them to stay put, that the streets aren't safe. Tell Señorita Beatrix that Raul sent you, then come back here. Can you do that for me? This is very important."

Carlos nodded. Hesitation and fear crept up on him at the responsibility placed on him by his hero, making him fidget. Then the Vaquero squeezed his shoulder, and it was all gone. The boy puffed his chest out, flattered at the trust his hero was putting in him – him, Carlos, not Antonio or any of the other boys of the Quarter - and determined to do his best not to disappoint him.

"Tu eres un buen chico, Carlos. Go now, run."

Carlos broke into a dead sprint, away from the combat, the big smile back on his face at the Vaquero's praise.

0 * MiA * 0

A few miles southeast of Freeside, deep in the ruins of the pre-war metropolis, a single light shone behind the boarded-up windows of an unassuming two-storey house. Battered by the wind and discolored by sandstorms, to the casual observer the building's only element worthy of notice would be the slated roof still adorning its top, largely intact even after so much punishment.

Said observer would then promptly make themselves scarce in quick order after one good look at the two men watching the premises for interlopers and eyeing each other with an air of hostility.

Both were tall, broad-shouldered, and heavily armed. Black combat armor protected the first from neck to toe, leaving only his arms bare. Said arms carried a plasma rifle, a bulky model fresh off the manufacturing line, built for efficiency as much as for intimidation. His was the open kind of hostility, the one made of frowns, twitchy fingers and only missing teeth bared in a growl.

The second man donned a more patched-together and less impressive ensemble: composed of a leather coat on a Kevlar vest and metal reinforcements, it shifted fluidly on his form as the slightly pale man prowled, one hand never too far from the 12.7 mm SMG at his hip as the other wielded a wickedly sharp gladius. His was the subdued, more controlled brand of hostility, the one evinced only by a certain tension of the body, ready to uncoil with lethal results at the smallest shove. To the Creole's glowering, the pale planes of this man's face remained stony and disciplined.

Inside and upstairs, past more guards with different faces but identical extraction, a man and a woman sat undisturbed around a rickety table. A screened lamp cast a flickering light between them. It reflected off the darkened glasses glued to the man's face and gave the woman's dark skin an almost oily sheen.

"You're late, Good Man."

"I wasn't the one to request this meeting."

"You stand to gain from it as much as I do, if not more."

"Perhaps. I'm wondering what you can offer, exactly. I see you didn't bring the rifle I gave you, so I presume you lack the answers I want."

"My people are still working on it."

"Working on it, or working on recovering it? Don't lie to me twice, woman."

"… Fine. I have feelers out, searching for John Doe. He's dropped off the map after the Tops, but he's not someone who can or will stay under the radar for too long. The moment he pokes his head out, I'll feed him his testicles and take back your fucking gun."

"Jean-Baptiste's swagger doesn't suit you… But very well. I won't stop you from trying. Until then, we have nothing to discuss."

"Shove your tricks up your ass, Vulpes. I'm getting tired of them. You need me as much as I need you."

"Do I now?"

"Caravan hands chat, no matter what side of the Colorado they come from. Word is Caesar is calling back his favorite attack dog from the Eastern campaigns. A strong, bloodthirsty leader, whose name is breathed in terror by friend and enemy alike. The perfect Son of Mars… my, my, I wonder where that leaves you."

"Dealing with the empty wit of profligates, it appears. Speak your mind, or be gone."

"Touchy nerve? It's very simple. Caesar is old. An old, paranoid coot who won't nominate a successor in fear of creating his own Brutus. When he dies, the Legion won't turn to you for guidance, but to Lanius. "

"And what makes you think I have any desire to lead the Legion? My place has always been in the shadows, the blade that hamstrings the enemy."

"Please, cut the crap. I know ambition when I see it."

"Do you really? I'm afraid you know very little. And yet, I'll admit you're surprisingly cultured, for a vile profligate bitch."

"Flattery won't get you anywhere, Vulpes. It's always good to know what kind of person I'm dealing with, especially if it's a deluded dress-alike with his dick stuck two millennia in the past."

"Minerva, grant me patience. Speak your offer."

"A first shipment of weapons and ammo for you and your Frumentarii, with two of my veterans to teach you to shoot straight and not turn your balls into jello. Free of charge."

"What deceiving words. And in exchange, I presume you want the Legion to divert the profligates' attention from your little land-grab in Freeside, until Matriarch Tiaret's support arrives? Don't look so surprised, woman. You're not half as smart as you believe you are. Woefully predictable, in fact."

"Why don't you choke on it, boy-fucker?"

"How very eloquent. Yet I dislike being tossed the same scraps as the Fiends. As you've already misplaced the token of my trust in this partnership, Mercury's fairness demands you double the size of the shipment, at the very least."

"I'm fighting a fucking war here, if you haven't noticed."

"All I've noticed is spoiled savages tussling and knifing each other in their playground. Don't confuse your petty ambitions with a real war. Double the shipment, or this partnership ends right now."

"And you believe you'll make it out of here alive, in that case?"

"Have you considered I picked this location in the first place?"

"… Double shipment, but to be delivered only after I see the soldier boys at McCarran watch East, and not into Freeside."

"Very well. Have it ready in two days, then. I believe we're done here."

"Yes, we fucking are."

"One last piece of advice, woman. Free of charge. That little deception you mounted to pit the Kings against the Bear? It's offensively amateurish. Rest assured that even when the soldiers look East, there are those in the NCR who won't lose sight of you anytime soon."

"Go back to your tent in the desert and your little boys. I know how to handle the Office."

"I'm told your father used to say the same."

"… I will eat your heart one day, Inculta."

0 * MiA * 0

The careful, stealthy approach sailed straight out of the window the moment Freeside started blowing up like a firecracker.

"What the hell is going on?!" he hissed into the Pip-Boy's mic, but the screen didn't change into the megalomaniac's face, nor did House deign to waste his voice on him. A simple line of text flickered on the darkened screen, sickly green on black.

 _Complete your task, Mr. Doe. I'm handling this new development._

"Fuck!" Concealed by the Stealth Boy, John crossed the goons' sleeping quarters at a run and kicked the far door open as the doorknob started to turn. The sharp edge of the door smashed the Van Graff guard square in the forehead, sending him back howling and dazed. John shouldered the door open again as it recoiled and ducked in time for a fat bolt of plasma to obliterate the top of it. The stealth field around him flickered from the heat, or maybe it was the magnetic field holding the plasma shot together interfering.

A short burst from the SD3 silenced the other goon as the plasma rifle whirred up another shot. As the body hit the ground, John turned and dropped the other man before he could recover: three rounds through his hand and into his skull, then he stepped over the bodies and dashed up the closest flight of stairs.

The PA system came alive with a scratchy shriek that lowered to a man's heated shouts a moment later.

"We've got intruders on the premises! One confirmed with a Stealth Boy. They're making for the second floor! Find them and bring me their heads!"

John shot the squawk box to bits, then cursed as he returned visible. The Stealth Boy on his wrist hissed and popped sparks, a stray glob of plasma burrowing slowly into it. He threw the ruined device away and took the rest of the stairs three at a time.

At the top, he didn't rush around the corner. His face ached with ghost pains from the last time he'd lunged head-first into a similar situation, back in Primm. Quickly shoving those memories back, he peered around, shot a swiveling camera, dropped a couple of mines and took off in the other direction, going over the blueprints of the place. Gloria Van Graff's office wasn't far, he told himself.

Another camera. The man on the PA was shouting himself hoarse. John silenced another speaker, then reoriented himself and advanced. The whole floor shook with a deafening detonation and John knew his mines were gone, but he heard none of the cryings that meant a dropped pursuer. Shot from a distance then.

He had to wrap this up quickly. Then he could go and see what in the world was happening to the world outside.

The door across to Gloria's office – marked by a helpful, silvery door plate – was wedged open. Distracted by shooting another camera to pieces, John didn't see the red dot of a laser rifle's muzzle until it was too late. He was quick, but nobody was quicker than light.

The red lance speared him in the chest as he turned, carrying no momentum at all. The tang of boiling ablative ceramics invaded John's nostrils, but his body was already moving, rolling on the floor and out of the ambusher's fire lane even as the echo of approaching steps bounced off the walls, fast approaching.

John palmed two grenades and threw them in opposite directions, then kicked off the floor. The ambusher abandoned his concealment, laser rifle levelled before him, but the twin detonations of smoke grenades made him look away for another target, another interloper he may have missed. A moment was all John needed.

His left fist smashed through the ceramic plates of the henchman's armor. It buckled, then shattered, and the crack of bones suggested that so had the man's sternum and ribs. He staggered, a weak gasp turning into a gurgle, then the gray smoke from the grenades rolled over them.

John switched on his visor and switched the optics to thermal. Several signatures were approaching from the stair and the corridors, while another waited inside the office, crouched and hunkered down by the looks of it. The DEWs they carried emitted signatures too, if fainter thanks to the shielding. Plasma and lasers all, and a lot of them.

A piece of John's armor clattered to the floor, consumed beyond repair by a single shot. It silenced the voice in his head urging him to stand and fight and kill them all. There were other ways to that, and he had places to be.

The moment the door was smashed in, the man lurking behind Lady Van Graff's desk opened up on the single silhouette visible against the invading smoke. His shots struck true, burning through armor and flesh both. His trigger finger, however, had been faster than his eyes. The higher ranking goon had only a moment to be surprised at having shot one of his own before Fritz's tri-shot blew his skull to steam and overheated fragments of bone.

John threw his last two mines in the direction the reinforcements were coming from, counting on the smoke for more destructive results, then shut the door closed and toppled a locker across it as a makeshift barricade.

There was a mic on the ruined desk, just within arm's reach of the new, smoldering hole decorating it and the dead speaker crumpled in a heap behind. John's eyes traveled up quickly, however, and the faint flicker of satisfaction to poke its head through the worry, anger, and adrenaline withered quite readily.

Dominating the far wall, tucked between the paintings of a man and a woman of distinct Creole ancestry, was a safe. Large and black as sin, with an alphanumerical keypad under a small display smack in the middle. the thing looked sturdy. Gloria Van Graff didn't even try to hide it. Part of John smelled a ruse, or maybe a decoy.

The other part remembered this was the woman who declared war on all of Freeside and allied with the Legion as the cherry on top. An overflowing ego and confidence bordering on arrogance were the rules of the game. In a way, John himself was here at the behest of a similar man.

In the corridor, the first mine went kablooey. This time, the henchmen screamed. John shook himself, vaulted over the desk and smashed his left fist into the keypad, torqueing his body for extra strength. His assumption proved correct when the electronics folded like tin foil, the inner ablative layer against DEW discharges gave way and the last layer of steel buckled under the impact. The next punch left an ever deeper imprint, widening the gap. Then John shoved Fritz's muzzle sideways into the hole, angled it just so, and shot several tri-blasts point blank into the mechanical lock, now bereft of electronic control.

The left side and lower corner of the safe glowed an angry red, the steel softening and crumbling. The second mine detonated a moment later, just as John punched the damaged, super-heated lock, finally smashing it in.

His left fist retreated a smoking, oddly painless ruin, the glove and faux-flesh flash-melted nearly up to his wrist. There was no proper bone underneath, nor tendons or vessels, and yet there also were, in a way. Translucent liquid flowed in hundreds of micro-tubes tightly woven in a complex pattern around a metallic skeleton-like architecture John only caught a glimpse of. Then whatever freak science was behind his arm kicked into work, and a new layer of pink flesh spread over the entire structure in widening patches that fused together a heartbeat later.

John blinked in bemusement, but was shaken out his contemplation by the cussing outside and the crescendo of gunfire that was Freeside's new local anthem.

He could think about his arm later. Right now, he had to take those documents or whatever proof, and find Cass.

The safe's front hung half-destroyed and open. John rummaged quickly through stacked Legion coins and thick bundles of NCR dollars, tossing everything out until his right hand closed around the spine of a thick book. No, not a book.

A _ledger._

John resisted the impulse to peruse it. He shoved it into the thin pack he carried on his tac-vest and swept in a small pile of labeled holotapes as well, for good measure. He caught glimpses of _Alice_ and _Runners_ and _Mead_ on the labels as they tumbled in, then he heard the henchmen arrange around the door, about to kick it down and barge in, guns blazing.

John borrowed a page from Craig Boone's book, primed a plasma grenade in his left, and threw the round, metal canister through the damaged wood of the office door, much like a baseball. The resulting obliteration-by-plasma-in-confined-spaces elicited a self-satisfied smile.

Leaving the Silver Rush in the aftermath of that, after a judicious display of mercy-killing he didn't feel the Van Graff thugs quite deserved, was rather easier and quicker than gaining entrance. Fritz made short work of the bars welded to one of the windows on the second floor giving way onto the back streets. From there, it was all about lowering himself from the window sill and soften his short fall by rolling with momentum.

The Van Graffs' territory was eerily empty and overall quiet itself. The firefights echoed loudly from other quarters of Freeside, imposing onto the rather well-kept block like an intruder. He made himself scarce quickly, one eye on the streets for more of Gloria's forces and one on his Pip-Boy as he pawed away at it, demanding answers from House. About the Kings. About the fuck was going on. And about Cass.

The man-machine in the tower kept his answers to written form. Maybe he didn't trust John to be out of range from eavesdroppers. Whatever the case, the silence didn't help John swallow the pill.

 _Well done, Mr. Doe. Deliver the proof to the Lucky 38. Unnoticed, if you'd be so kind. The situation at the King's School is proceeding as predicted, as it is in most of Freeside, and will continue to do so. Ms. Cassidy is well, and handling her tasks as instructed._

John smelled the evasion in the vagueness and the guilt-trip hidden in the last sentence. The worst part was that, despite knowing it, despite wanting nothing more than to turn heel and make for the King's School, he was already buying into it. Because if the ledger and the holotapes proved that the Van Graffs had done or participated in only half of what John suspected they had…

The Pip-Boy vibrated again in a silent notice of one more message delivered.

 _Posthaste, Mr. Doe. There's still much to do before the day is over, and each wasted moment means more Vegas citizens killed for foreign interests._

Yes, manipulation. But there was no denying its effectiveness.

John brought up the pre-war map of Vegas' sewers and charted the nearest access to him as he broke into a run. He kept to the shadows as far as he could and even broke through abandoned buildings to avoid gaggles of people, aware of the lack of stealth-boy on his wrist. Maybe too aware: he made a note he should probably tone down their use for a couple of days, lest he turned into the late Davidson.

A short ladder, encrusted with sewage, rust and assorted filth, deposited him into another section of the sewers. As he grabbed the manhole cover, he fished a small detonator from his tac vest and flipped the switch.

' _It's time to send a message.'_

He'd have preferred to witness the demolition of the Silver Rush from a high vantage point, but beggars couldn't be choosers. Still, even from a distance, the ground rumbled as if the hand of God had descended upon it. The roar reached him a moment later, almost deafening in its intensity. The very ladder under him shook and creaked in protest.

A savage rictus of satisfaction spread across John's face at the flash of plasma that lit up the first shadows of the afternoon like Freeside's own personal sun. Then he dragged the cover over his head and disappeared into the city's underbelly.

0 * MiA * 0

The Kings were howling for blood. NCR blood. Or rather, Pacer was. To Cass, it looked like an awful lot of the grease-haired gangsters were riled up and ready for a good serving of messy – messier retribution.

"This is our home! Not House's, and sure as hell not them bastard Californians'!"

Cass blinked soot and dirt out of her eyes, then coughed into her fist, feeling her lungs squeeze painfully as they tried to expel themselves from her ribcage. She sat, body wracked by lingering adrenaline shakes, on a large chunk of what, not too long ago, had been the King's School of Impersonation's facade. Now, it looked more like a corpse of bricks and mortar laid bare for the scavengers and necrophiles. The first three floors gaped on Vegas Boulevard, bedrooms and game rooms and even what looked like classrooms. Some of them were on fire, burning merrily.

There were bodies there, too, burned and battered and buried in the rubble. Others were spread on the tarmac where they'd been gunned down, leaking fluids and shit all over the place. Not too many of them, but they were there. More were being laid out by the minute, with not even a sheet to cover them.

Of the fabulous neon sign, as much a local staple as the Lucky 38's profile towering over the horizon, only random letters and the lower half of the dancing man remained, hanging precariously and vomiting sparks.

Cass coughed and spat on the ground. The glob was black and thick with inhaled soot.

"We gave'em our food, we gave'em our water, we allowed'em to settle in our home! Presley King tried diplomacy and this, this is how we're paid back!"

As for the man himself... Cass looked where he'd been laid down on a makeshift stretcher someone had produced from fuck-knows-where. His dog, Rex, licked his face like it was the last thing in the world. Royal privilege, that one. A few Kings busied over him, cutting off his blood-soaked dress jacket, exposing a chest rising shallowly. His face was mauled and starting to swell, debris having cut crisscrossing red lines into his flesh. Rex licked the blood away from those as well.

He wasn't the only one wounded. Not by far, but all the medications she saw were used on him, and nobody said a peep about it. Kings slumped in the debris, moaning and speaking nonsense, clutching at mangled limbs with only tourniquets to stop them from bleeding out. Others dug bare-handed into the ruins, shouting each other hoarse in the lingering clouds of dirt as they dug people out of the rubble.

Cass looked at it all with dull eyes, only faintly aware of the blood flowing from an open cut on her temple.

' _He pushed me down. He realized what was happening, and he pushed me down. He could have put himself into cover, but he –'_

A breathless King shoved through the gathered mob of gangsters and ground to a halt, alarm written all over his face.

"The Fort has fallen!" It was enough to shake Cass from her looping thoughts, but only a few other heads turned. Slowly, dumbly. Maybe they were too enraptured by Pacer's spiel. Maybe… Cass didn't really know.

"The Fort has fallen!" the anonymous King shouted, louder and shrill. "Pacer! The Van Graffs stormed it, blew everything up!"

' _Oh. That explains the smoke.'_

Chaos fermented under the lid, then exploded like that mole-rat Garland had once stuffed with C4 for a bet. _'Heh. Fun times.'_

Some were despairing for doctors. Other called for taking the place back, kicking the Van Graffs' asses. Random shouts of help resounded from the ruins of the School, answered by few. King argued with King, then Kings were punching and shoving other Kings, personal animosities joining the mix now that the banner laid tattered in the dirt.

 _BANG! BANG! BANG!_

Standing atop a makeshift stage of rubble and bricks, Pacer lowered his gun and shouted louder and harder than them all.

"What are youse doing, morons ?! The enemy is out there, not here! The NCR sent their soldiers to kill us all, to kill our King, to kill our dream!" For effect, some of his supporters lifted the limp, boneless bodies of two NCR soldiers over their heads, like trophies, or maybe martyrs. The young woman and younger man, a kid really, commanded the attention of the bickering, panicked crowd like they were holy relics or some other shit.

"They allied with the Van Graffs, to leave us crippled and bleedin'! I say, we bite'em back, and we bite'em good! Take their head off!"

"Have you lost your mind!?" One of the Kings who was attending Presley King advanced now on Pacer's mob. "The King is dyin'! Our friends are dyin', or buried in the collapse, and you're fixin' to strike at Squatter Town!?" He turned an accusing glare on his fellow gangsters, though Cass thought it was a bit ridiculous, considering the belt full of barber tools around his waist. "What are y'all thinkin'? We need doctors, not more dead! If y'all want to shoot your guns, shoot'em at the Van Graffs! We need the Followers, not NCR heads!"

"Presley's already dead, Sergio!" Pacer yelled back, and there was a heat in his words that hadn't been there before. Cass blinked at the intensity of it. 'To Presley, from your punk, Pacer.' "Look at him. Look at him! Burn it in yer mind! He's dyin', and that's 'cause he was too soft with 'em Cali-bastards. We are the Kings, goddamnit! We're all here 'cause we believe in Presley's dream, in Freeside, and them fuckers want to take that away! I say, we show 'em the Kings don't kowtow to anyone!"

There was a lull then, a handful of moments where the mob of greasers digested the words, metabolized them in their brains before they let their dicks do the thinking, as per usual. Even the bedlam of gunfire, a pervasive fixture in the background, seemed to grant a moment of respite.

Then Freeside shook, lurching under her feet. The roar of the explosion rent the air a moment later. Cass slapped her hands on her ears, too late to stop the ringing bouncing into her skull, and looked up. Flashes of yellow and sickly green broke the cityscape in a widening globe, fraying at the edges, wide enough to steamroll an entire block into goop and ashes.

It was as brief as it was intense, and the echo of the roar faded, leaving only the afterimage of the explosion burned into her eyes. The urban combat quelled, offering long moments of eerie silence unbroken by the faint cries rising in the distance. Cass found herself on somewhat wobbly feet. Sergio and other Kings rose tentatively from the human shield they had formed around Presley King on instinct.

Pacer, however, was the quickest on the uptake. The bodies of the NCR soldiers had been dropped, more by surprise than by any shockwave, but it didn't deter the orator.

"That was the Silver Rush, gone!" He snarled, voice alight in vicious triumph. "We ain't alone in this fight! Follow me now, and by tomorrow, Freeside will be what Presley always dreamed it: a free place, for free people! No more Van Graffs! No more NCR!"

"You know," a voice, quiet as the grave, pierced through the impassioned speech, "House could really put him back on his feet, good as new."

Cass realized she'd been the one speaking only when she felt the collective pressure of many, too many gazes on her.

' _Oh. Shit.'_

It was Sergio the barber who spoke up first, exploiting Pacer's stunned silence before that vein on his neck ruptured and all hell broke loose.

"What did ya just say, gal?" He sounded angry, and desperate, and too many other things for Cass' addled brain to parse through. _'God, I need a shot of the good stuff.'_

She pushed away that thought with some effort, and licked her lips. She'd recovered her shotgun at some point, but she wasn't so cowboy-stupid to think about inching a finger toward the thing. House's protection or not, they just might shoot her dead. Judging by Pacer's murderous look, he just as well might because of it.

"House has got all these Auto-Docs in the Lucky 38," she coughed out. "Not the kind of quirky shit you usually see scavenged up. Honest-to-God miracle workers. Never seen shit like that." She glanced at Presley, his eyes shut despite Rex' nudging, his breath growing shallower despite the empty stimpaks littering the ground around him. ' _He pushed me down, where he didn't have to.'_ Determination entered her voice, and she regarded the Kings with a hard, uncompromising glare. "If we hurry, they can still piece him back together." _'Unless House shuts the doors in their face. He wants their allegiance, but…'_

Something took hold on Sergio's face, pushing past the desperation and everything else. It rippled across the crowd, choked by indecision and doubt and resentment and a dozen different things, but it was there, and it was contagious. Kings exchanged glances, dozens of eyes glued on Presley where they had been on Cass and Pacer before.

It took a moment for recognition to push past the dull pressure on her temple.

' _Hope.'_

Then Pacer broke the spell.

"No! Absolutely not!" The man was positively shaking with fury, his words whips that lashed out at anyone and anything in sight. "Would ya cheapen Presley's life like that?! Deliver him to the bastard who kicked us out and made the streets run red with blood, our blood?! House is the enemy! House is everything a King must stand against, everything Presley's dream stands against! And now this ginger whore rolls in and y'all grovel at her feet?! Have youse forgotten what it means to be a King, to wear these colors?!"

That got the crowd back on his side and the guns waving in the air, but more people ignored Pacer and stepped away and gathered around Presley King, dying slowly in the ruins of his school. The gangster glared at all of them, and at Cass with particular nastiness, before he shot more bullets into the air, until the gun clicked empty.

"I haven't forgotten! I'll never abandon Presley's dream! I will never betray Freeside! Are youse with me, or are youse with House?!"

Sergio didn't shout back. He looked too tired by half to do so. "This ain't about House, Pacer, or about you, or about any of us. This is about Presley King. We are the Kings because he is our King. Without him, where would we be? Where would you be, you fuckin' punk?"

"I can tell ya where I'm going, you cocksucker," Pacer snarled, loud enough to carry over the mob. "I'm gonna protect what we worked and bled for all these years, not sell it to some psycho bot and his slut! Presley'd rather die than owe his life to House! Who's with me?! Who hasn't forgotten what we fight for?!"

Cass let the insults and cheers and everything wash over her. She focused on fiddling with the ugly block of electronics that was the Pip-Boy on her wrist, eyes narrow and teeth gritting as she tried to remember what House had told her, about one-way communications and emergency messages.

'Wait a moment.' Wasn't the fucker listening in? She was pretty sure he was listening in. Microphones in the thing, or some stuff like that.

' _Goddamnit.'_ Cass massaged her temple, then put down her hand with a hiss at the fresh flare of pain _. 'Why is it so hard to think?'_

Her fingers moved awkwardly over the knobs and commands, until she finally gave up. The Kings were standing around her, many of them covered in dirt, their hands scraped bloody by the digging. All looked at her impatiently, expectantly, fearfully even, and a lot of other something–ly that only meant they wanted her to do, or say some shit. There were a lot less of them, though. Where had the -?

She caught a glimpse of the mob jogging away from the School and down the Boulevard. It was one big ass crowd, textbook-like, thick with bodies, peashooters and a large serving of xenophobic hate for good measure. Pacer had riled them up good and proper, all things considered.

' _Riled them up to kill NCR citizens. Men, women and tykes who've got shit to do with this madness. And here I am, dancing to House's tune like a good puppet._ '

"Hey, gal!" a young King swaggered up, chin lifted in challenge. Cass recognized him as the overgrown boy who'd escorted her from the picket on the Boulevard. "Can your House man really do it? Save our King, I mean?"

Loud murmurs and exclamations resounded all around. Four Kings had already picked up the stretcher, while another kept Presley's hands joined on his chest to avoid his arms scraping on the tarmac. Rex sat with his muzzle on the stretcher, unwaveringly licking his master, one part guard-dog and one canine stubbornness. It looked a lot like a funerary procession, missing only the distraught faces and crying. Some of the younger Kings looked about to reach that level, though.

"Hey! You deaf?!"

"I can, quite easily," House's smooth, authoritative voice answered while Cass struggled to find the right words, or any words at all beyond her doubts. They all stared at her Pip-Boy, from where the well-groomed picture of the self-appointed ruler of Vegas regarded them with the usual, fixed condescending smile.

"Please escort Mr. Presley and his associates to the Strip's gates, Ms. Cassidy. Doctor McPayne and his assistants have already been forewarned."

And with that said, House's face winked out.

"Was that really -?"

"Who else?"

"He better be tellin' the truth here or-"

"What kind of name is McPayne for a doctor?"

"Enough! Shut the fuck up!" Cass snapped, annoyed and vexed at the prospect of meeting that blasted Mr. Orderly again and having its prongs touch her like a slab of meat. Or maybe it was that it reminded her of Veronica. ' _Goddamnit. First the cowboy, now that goddamned Scribe. What's wrong with me?'_

"She's right, " Sergio declared uneasily. He was by the King's side, a finger on his pulse, his face one part determination, one fear, and one shame. Like a man at war with himself, ready to betray himself for something – or someone – greater than him. "Time's a-wasting, boys. Us five and the gal will take the King to the Strip. No Rexie, listen, you gotta stay here! There's more of us who need help, buried under the rubble! The King wouldn't want you to leave'em to die. Make the man proud!"

Rex whined loudly, but complied.

They took off quickly after that, Cass trailing somewhat behind at first. She shook her head and slapped her own cheek, trying to force clarity where only pain and circling thoughts were. 'A concussion,' she told herself at last, 'I've got a concussion, or maybe it's the med-x. Don't think about it.'

"House better have the meat to back up his talk," Sergio told her as the Strip's gates grew closer, "or Pacer will bring all the shit in heaven down on all of us."

0 * MiA * 0

Comfortably ensconced in his reign of information, data, and calculations, Mr. House watched as Rose of Sharon Cassidy delivered the key to Freeside right at his front door, heinously wounded and thus, soon to be indebted to a similar intensity.

The rightful ruler of Vegas was pleased with himself, and felt entirely entitled at that. The whole operation to bind Freeside to him and drag the weakened, embarrassed NCR to the diplomatic table was proceeding speedily, and with combined results only foreseen by his brightest and most positive simulations.

His CODEd brains had already perused the wealth of incriminating and sensitive information carelessly stored by Gloria Van Graff. Some of House's more likely suspicions were confirmed: Alice McLafferty, that annoyingly efficient and pleasingly ruthless woman at the head of the Crimson Caravan Company, was involved neck-deep with the Van Graffs' operations, as Gloria had seen fit to document extensively for future blackmail.

The partnership, however, went beyond the expected curtailing of small-time caravans in the Mojave water trade, or striking Gun Runners' deliveries of energy weapons. No, that was only the beginning of a rather ambitious plan that'd eventually see – with some approximation and strong-arming of chances – the Van Graffs as the premier family in New Reno, and Crimson Caravan restored into its monopoly of the trade routes from and to the West, like it had long before the NCR was formed, on the strength of the water drawn from Lake Mead, the last significant body of radiation-free water in the charted West.

Another ambitious initiative by over-achieving players nipped in the bud by careless handling of sensitive information. Some things, it seemed, never changed.

If he were to disclose the entirety of the information to the NCR media, House calculated a conservative eighty-four-point-three percent that Crimson's stock would plunge vertiginously within a week. Conversely, the particular brand of diplomacy between the NCR and the largely independent New Reno would see the Van Graffs suffer from profitable trade avenues denied to them and a severe plunge in prestige, but they'd be back to their current, annoying level of threat within eight years at best. The estimated time halved by four in the eventuality of a Legion victory at Hoover Dam.

House discarded the ineffective approach after two seconds of ponderation, drew up several simulations he'd run to cover this eventuality, and picked the best choice as the doors of the Lucky 38 closed behind his agent, Doctor McPayne, Presley King, and the Securitrons carrying the stretcher. Much to his appreciation, the gangsters' presence and the opening of the Lucky 38's main door were gathering a large crowd of onlookers and busybodies. Among them, the members of the Three Families stood out in their wonderment and concern.

That would remind the Families that they were replaceable, all of them, at any moment. That their luxuries and status were his to give and take away. The reminder would also make Big Sal and Nero prone to panic and act like the brutes they were, revealing who exactly was behind their too-ironclad security and planning.

House sent a message to Michael Angelo's terminal with the information about the Van Graff reinforcements gearing up to move from Reno. As per protocol, the artist would send one of his many urchins to deliver the information to Mick & Ralph anonymously. They, in turn, would forward it to the Office of Intelligence like the good, local plants they were.

Another message went to Sarah Weintraub's Pip-Boy, together with a copy of the holotapes where Gloria and Alice discussed their attacks on the various New Reno Mafioso Families' caravans, as well as digitalized transcripts of the related entries in Gloria's ledgers. The director of the Vault 21 Hotel was ordered to contact the Mojave Express for a priority expedition to Mr. Bishop in New Reno, as well as contracting a proper guard detachment from the many clients who favored her establishment.

Soon, the New Reno Families would be too preoccupied with tearing each other and the Van Graffs apart to give particular attention to the Mojave, or even the Crimson Caravan Company.

With the downfall of the Van Graffs outside of his direct reach all but assured, House shelved the final decision on Alice's McLafferty's fate. Freeside required his undivided attention, for the moment at least.

Gloria's little ploy to pit the NCR and the Kings at each other's' throats wasn't particularly inventive, or subtle, but then again, it needn't be when the lynchpin was someone like Pacer. The man hadn't even realized his go-to information brokers, Mick & Ralph, had been subverted by the NCR Office over two years back. Now, the brash gorilla was leading a large congregation of his peers to the slaughter. Or maybe not. House parsed through several recordings of Squatter Town, the unrecognized NCR colony in Freeside, drawing new charts.

No, the paramilitaries there were definitely well-armed, and better trained than the gangster rabble, but their numbers had dwindled in the past weeks. Recalled to the frontlines due to the intensification of the Legion's activity across the Colorado, most likely. Running the recognition software for confirmation for every single case was unnecessary. What mattered was that Squatter Town wasn't as well defended as one might think.

That suited House quite well. A longer, bloodier confrontation would arrange the Kings and the NCR in ideal positions for the next stage. Especially with Presley King out of the game beyond any doubt for the foreseeable future, and thus unable to shoulder the blame for the hapless scapegoat leading the other sheep to Squatter Town.

It'd be best to have all the pieces ready to move at the right time. House summoned the camera feeds following the party of fake NCR troopers through Freeside. They'd already reached their hideout, and were in the process of changing attire and reorganizing themselves. That'd take time, however. Especially after John Doe's rather pyrotechnic showing at the once-Silver Rush.

The man of the hour was currently restocking in the armory. House's sensors picked up his rather harassed and exerted physical condition. It wouldn't do to wear out such a capable asset too soon. Not when the exams on the biological samples were still giving inconclusive results. No, it was tantamount to keep Doe in a favorable state of mind. If House's calculation were right – and they always were – this would be the last foray before he could grant the man some rest.

"Mr. Doe, I require your services once more."

The man looked up from fastening a new piece of armor to his chest, eyes hooded and sunken, but still sharp. "Will this stop the fighting, or is it another step?"

House considered reminding his employee of the proper tone to hold, as a concession on the matter would only reinforce the negative behavior. And so he did. "Spare your aggressiveness for our enemies, Mr. Doe. I'm sending you to apprehend the ghoul named Rotface. He and his gang carried out the attack on the King's School, under the guise of NCR soldiers. It's tantamount that he be apprehended alive, and capable of speech: his testimony will point both the NCR and the Kings to the true culprit, sparing many lives in the process."

Doe worked the words in his head for a long moment, then grunted, "Words aren't going to stop the Van Graffs. Not when they hold the Mormon Fort."

House let a sliver of appreciation color his words. There was no harm in acknowledging a work well done. "The destruction of the Silver Rush has left them without resources and shaken their morale greatly. But you are correct: words won't, not at first. My Securitrons will."

Doe's surprise was rather pleasing, if expected. "I thought the whole point was keeping your involvement concealed."

"Indeed. However, by the Hoover Dam Accords, I hold the right to intervene and police Freeside as Vegas' Law dictates. With the proof you've delivered, my intervention won't be that of an authoritative despot crushing his rivals, rather than that of a benevolent ruler helping his people and allies against a common enemy."

Realization flashed on Doe's face, and the frown appeared like clockwork. "You could've rolled in and stamped out the Van Graffs the moment they fired the first shot?!"

"I could have," House admitted, "but then another would have taken their place. Another Family from Reno, Legion proxies, or maybe the Kings' themselves. The Van Graffs' freedom of action are barely a consequence to the lack of a recognized authority over Freeside."

"And the people who died while you played your waiting game? What about them?!"

Smiling invisibly as the conversation followed the prepared rails, House sunk another talon into John Doe.

"A sad, necessary sacrifice that will prevent many more. A similar fate to all the innocents caught in the Silver Rush's demolition." As Doe's frown slackened in confusion and then shock, House prodded further. "I'm sure you will agree fusion-powered weapons and devices can be quite destructive on a large scale, when improperly detonated. Not to mention the generator powering up the structure."

Doe's anguish wasn't particularly enjoyable, but House let him wallow in the realization of what he had so recklessly wrought for a while. In the meantime, he returned to oversee the goings on in Freeside through the hundreds, thousands of camera covering the place.

The Van Graff offensive to seize the Spanish Quarter's farms and water had met a stiff resistance. The involvement of the Ghost Vaquero and his dress-alike vigilantes had been certain from the start, but somehow, they'd managed to rile up a good slice of the Quarter's population to fight off the Van Graffs.

That kind of cohesion could prove… problematic in the long run, especially in such an ethnically-independent block. Moreover, the new development painted the Ghost Vaquero as a much more influential personality in the chaotic amalgamation of Freeside.

The ideal scenario now would see the vigilante die heroically to defend his people, and then his Securitrons swoop in to save the day. Martyrdom and idolization were powerful weapons, but without a charismatic leader to exploit them, the Quarter would fall in line quite easily.

Judging by the rhythm of the battle and his up-to-speed projections, however, the Vaquero's timely demise seemed more and more unlikely. House called upon what data he'd gathered on the vigilante, searching for potential weaknesses to exploit. It was also worth considering that the Followers of the Apocalypse, judging by his limited coverage of that portion of the sewers, were headed for the Quarter's general area. That suggested a link, and as the premier figure in the area, that link had a good percentage of involving the Vaquero personally in some form. Maybe there was room to work there…

"Oh God," Doe breathed. He was leaning against the reloading bench, biting down on his non-artificial fist. "What have I done?"

"What you believed necessary. What was necessary to stop this brutality and give Freeside peace and stability." And now, the little nugget of kinship. The inch of balm to assuage some of his guilt and help Doe justify the brutal and ruthless side of him House intended to groom. "In your shoes, I would have done the same, Mr. Doe. With the resources of the Silver Rush at their disposal, the Van Graffs would have become even more dangerous as their standing grew desperate. This way, you've broken their back for good. Not to mention, many of the victims are likely associated with the Family's crimes in some form or another."

Doe shook his head, eyes wide and bloodshot. Refusal to reason, and of course, a certain natural propensity to picture himself as a monster to blame. Nothing unexpected.

"No, I could have –"

"Hauled all the supplies away on your back? Secured the place against droves of henchmen?" House made his words cutting, but not mocking. It wouldn't do to have Doe lash out at him. "You would have died, Mr. Doe, no matter your gift. You would have died, I wouldn't possess the information to annihilate the entire Van Graff Family at its roots, and Ms. Cassidy would have died for her father's mistakes, sooner or later."

Women. For such a promising individual to share into one of man's baser, if more entertaining and exploitable weaknesses, was unsurprising. It was that kind of fetters that always stopped people like John Doe from elevating above their position as pawns and tools, to become individuals worthy of real notice.

But still, he'd built much of his empire by exploiting such figures before the war, and it seemed the renewal of humanity would have such individuals bear the worst of the burden once more. It was a slightly disappointing occurrence, if a favorable one to his designs.

Doe wouldn't even be the greatest man he'd known to be brought down by such venal passions. Not even close. Frederick Sinclair, that singularly ingenious individual House might have once called a rival, took the premier position on that list. His had been the greatest fall. Certainly, the loudest. One of the most enterprising and shrewdest minds of his time, brought to ruin by the empty charm of a starlet.

Another such pawn, this one doomed by self-inflicted blindness, registered to his attention. Gloria Van Graff and her guards were making good time back to Freeside, after her rather secretive meeting with what projections indicated was likely a Legion contact. He smirked as the stealth MK II Unit trailing the woman picked up her shock as Doe's little present became visible over the walls of Freeside. After that, she'd make even better time.

That would serve him well. Rush always translated into carelessness, and Gloria Van Graff was never a particularly careful individual.

House switched on the microphone on Unit ST45-221, standing guard inside the Clinic. Rose of Sharon Cassidy was being treated for her concussion and minor injuries with a rather effective cocktail of meds. She'd be back on her feet presently, and House could think of no better way to test her attitude and determine the extent of her potential future use.

"Hello, Ms. Cassidy. You'll be pleased to know that Gloria Van Graff didn't die in the destruction of the Silver Rush, as she was out of town. I've updated your Pip-Boy with the coordinates of her access point into Freeside. Please make your way there with my Securitrons, and apprehend her on my authority. Alive, if you'd be so kind."

0 * MiA * 0

After a shocked but combat-effective John Doe departed through the sewers and Rose of Sharon Cassidy slipped out through the underground garage with her escort, largely unnoticed despite the storm cloud hanging over her head, House contemplated the large crowd still growing just beyond the Lucky 38's access ramp. Kings, the Families and some of their retainers, tourists, whores, even a decent number of NCR Military Police Officers. He'd be quite disappointed if the Office of Intelligence and the Legion's Frumentarii didn't have at least one person there already. But he supposed it'd do.

With a single, remote command, the Lucky 38's doors slid open once more. For the first time in years, the Securitrons rolled out in columns. In minutes, the Lucky 38's entire reserve detachment that had never seen the light of the sun had pushed back the crowd and was heading with synchronized perfection to the Strip's Gate.

Over-extending like that was a bit of a risk, but a calculated one that'd beget considerable and decisive results, both immediately and in the future. Besides, in a matter of days, the newly-reactivated assembly lines underneath the Lucky 38 would be primed and ready to start producing more.

"Do you see what I have to deal with here, Derek?" House asked rhetorically at the digital image of the last man who once might have been his peer and rival. It wasn't like the scientist could shut his new home off, or avoid looking at the many screens broadcasting from his Securitrons and cameras live. Nobody could resist the temptation after two hundred years of complete isolation and sensory deprivation.

"Imagine what bounty and prosperity I could bring to these people with only a fraction of your technology. These barbaric methods would become unnecessary and remain buried in the past where they belong. We can bring humanity to a new, shining future, without bloodshed or thinly-veiled repression. You only need to tell me where you and Diana hid the Nursery."

To House's mild surprise, the redhead broke the stubborn silence he had kept for the past few days.

"You're pathetic, Bob," Derek Greenway replied after a while, "and you were better at bullshitting people back in the day. I've spent two centuries inside a chip, but you're the same attention-whore from the old days. That takes some serious effort."

"It seems solitude didn't cure you of your selfishness, or your dirty tongue."

"I try my best to please you," the imprisoned scientist said sardonically. "What I see is the same little, sad child wailing for the world's attention because his parents liked his older, dumber brother best. You always hated being brushed off, didn't you, Bob? I think that's why you turned this monstrosity into your Arcadia with all your toys, rather than refit a bunker like any other sane man. And when robots and copies aren't enough, you turn real people into your toys. You let half of this Freeside burn because of another childish tantrum."

"Spit venom as long as you wish," House replied, all sweet condescension. "You were always a sore loser."

"Pot, meet kettle. If only I'd taken a picture of your face from that time Zero walked into your annual stockholder meeting with that neurotic mug-obsessed Securitron on his shoulder – oh, wait! Who has the photographic memory here? Doctor Greenway does!" Derek laughed rather theatrically, an odd contrast to the dour expression on his picture. "That was a real balm during those lonely years in the chip, let me tell you."

Then Greenway sniggered, a metallic sound that echoed in the empty chamber. "Can't beat your declaration to Diana – that was beyond precious, Bob– but it still ranks pretty high. But please, keep jacking off to the sound of your own voice. Don't let me spoil your fun."

0 = MiA = 0

 _AN: It should be obvious, but I'll say it once more to avoid feminism flaming: House's views on women are his, not mine. I think they are coherent for someone who copied the mental pattern of his own favorite starlets and put them into Securitrons chasses, but that's about it._

 _Also, Derek is totally referring to Doctor 0 and Muggy. He calls him Zero because the Think Tank Doctor's true name is indeed 0, as in the number, not O the letter._

 _Thank you for reading. Don't forget to leave a_ _ **review**_ _with your thoughts, impressions, critiques and feedback in that sexy box down and to the left._


	19. 17) The Longest Day, Part Three

**Missing in Action 17) The Longest Day, Part Three**

 _Or_

 **Balls to the Wall: One Avenger Too Many**

 _AN: My thanks to_ _ **Paladin Bailey, Aegon Blacksteel, Emperor Rance, HelveticaStandard, PartyPat22, Master Doom Maker (x2), The Desert Dancer**_ _(200_ _th_ _review for the win!),_ _ **WilSquare, Winding Warpath**_ _and_ _ **Solivore (x4)**_ _for their reviews, feedback and critiques._

 _Edit 04/09/17: PartyPat22 combed through the mess for all of us._

0 = MiA = 0

The fizzle of radios, the voices of the operators repeating sitreps, and the calm, almost subdued orders they received in return mixed with the faint echoes of distant gunfire. The subtle rumble of impacting mortar rounds and collapsing buildings made the soles of Ranger Tanner's boots tremble just so as she approached McCarran's Command Centre.

The Ranger nodded back at the guards' salute and strode in, taking the entire room in at a glance through her helmet's bloodied lenses, like Garret taught her so long ago. Half a dozen operators manned just as many radio posts, headphones pressed to their ears and jotting down the coded comms with pens or even stubs of pencil. Lt. Carrie Boyle was hunched over one said specialist, listening to the young man speaking to her a mile a minute.

A large, round table dominated the room, every inch covered with neatly arranged maps, another radio spewing communications, a cup of tea, and a single stack of reports piled only slightly haphazardly. One man stood at the center of it, his mixed Asian features schooled in concentration under the trademark beret. Tanner stopped sharply and saluted.

"Ranger Tanner reporting in, sir."

Colonel Hsu nodded. "At ease, Ranger. A moment." He picked up the radio receiver and spoke into it. "Iron Three, Iron Three, this is McCarran Actual. How copy? Over."

The Colonel let go, and the line crackled for a moment, before the staccato of gunfire, mortar detonations, LMGs, and shouts exploded through the waves. The radio screeched and hissed, then the sounds grew echoing and muffled. Finally, a voice managed to wrestle the bedlam into submission. To Tanner, it sounded harried and loud, but grounded and in control. Which, judging by the volume of fire caught by the officer's Power Armor's microphone, was quite telling.

Then again, this was the Guard of Iron, not some snot-faced, mutfruit-bearded bunch of green recruits just out of basic.

" _McCarran Actual, this is Iron Three Actual. Copy 4 out 5. Over."_

"Iron Three, Bear Three is moving to reinforce your position. ETA, seventeen minutes. Recon One is circling from the Samson Rock Crushing Plant. They'll take the heat off you. Over."

The Iron Guard officer sounded relieved. _"That's good news, sir! We're holding our position around the New Vegas Steel complex, but the Fiends are in a frenzy. Got their hands on some top notch DEWs and even a couple of patched-together technicals. I've got three suits down, and over fifteen wounded. Over."_

Colonel Hsu's face was a study in blankness. "Copy, Iron Three. Hold your position until Bear Three arrives. Don't let them cross the I-15. McCarran, over and out."

The Colonel's pushed a bear-shaped figurine on the far side of the I-15 on the tactical map. Tanner took in the current arrangement, and grimaced inside her helmet. There were brown bear figurines on McCarran, the Sunset Salsaparilla bottling plant and the West Pump station, the three major NCR FOBs between the I-15 and the South Vegas ruins, aka Fiend Central. Two more, one a the tiny brahmin skull-and-guns badge of First Recon, the other a small rendition of a T51b helmet painted brown, were placed on the Rock Crushing Plant further south and the New Vegas Steel industrial complex respectively.

The Canuck burnbag's voice echoed in her head. _'A pincer maneuver. Let them waste away on the defenses, then break their back and push them back into the ruins, skull headwears and all.'_ Her attention returned to the Colonel.

"Good work down in the sewers, Ranger," the Colonel offered, short but with just enough warmth to neatly cross the line between rite prep talk and honesty. "Last thing we need is Fiends flanking our positions or popping up in our courtyard."

"Thank you, sir. My orders?" she queried bluntly. She'd been in the middle of chasing Fiends through the underbelly of the ruins – a dirty, thankless task, but a crucial one - when Dr. Hildern, the ad interim ranking officer in the Office, radioed in and called her back on the double. She'd left Ranger Anders in command. A good man, and capable, but he wasn't a Black One.

"We have a situation in Freeside," the Colonel said. He picked up a hastily written report from the top of the pile. "Major Kieran radioed in from Squatter Town. As if the Fiends weren't enough, the Van Graffs have started a turf war with the Kings. The Old Mormon Fort is theirs now. No news of the Followers."

Tanner nodded. The developments were hardly surprising, if ill-timed. In all honesty, she found it quite ironic and fitting that those backstabbing anarchists found themselves on the hard end of the cudgel for once. When the call for arms went out, after Congress was bombed and only the Iron General's will kept the NCR from collapsing, the Followers had turned their back on the NCR and the war effort, the hypocrites.

Tanner had seen many, far too many die messily and in terrible pain for that decision: soldiers and good people who could have been saved, or at least given a dignified, painless end, rather than being mercy killed by their comrades.

Recognizing the familiar train of thought and the scalding bitterness that came with it, Tanner sidestepped the issue and focused on the matter at hand. Freeside. The Office had been receiving rumours and tidbits for weeks now that something was brewing, inside and outside the city. Major Granite and half of the Guard of Iron, as well as Garret's unit of Black Ones, had been sent to bolster up McCarran as a consequence.

Then the Legion situation had exploded and almost all eyes had turned to the Colorado again.

Well, almost every eye. Tanner was stuck with Dr. Hildern at the Major's orders, working on the lead on the bug-eyed-bastard Infiltrator behind Garret's back as her mentor rode up and down the Colorado. The old ghoul trusted her to keep the thing out of the Office's hands, and out of the Iron General's by consequence.

' _As if that was possible. Stupid, stupid, naïve Canuck.'_ A familiar pang of shame, worn and lacking in purchase, stubbornly made itself known. Tanner just pushed it down again, back where it belonged.

"This Fiend offensive can't be a coincidence," the Colonel continued, oblivious to Tanner's wandering thoughts," and you heard Lieutenant Hirsh. Military-grade DEWs. Right under our nose."

Tanner nodded again. Inside, she bristled, frustration supplanting any lingering, old conflict with ease.

The last Office Agent who'd looked into the connections between the Van Graffs and the Fiends had been found dead and torn to pieces by the Fiend Violet's dogs near the RobCo HQ ruins, not two weeks before. She'd known Javier Morales for years, and he was as competent and skilled as any Patrol Ranger or Office Agent she'd ever met. He'd have even made a good candidate for the Black Ones, in a few years.

His death, coupled with the near-mystical ways the cargos of weapons kept slipping under their notice, could only mean one thing.

There was a plant at McCarran. Someone skilled enough to work under the Office's nose, and remain unnoticed for years. Worse, someone in a position of authority, at the very least, to have access or even organize the patrol routes. Just thinking of it set the hair on Tanner's neck on edge, and made her look three or four times again at anyone, rather than the usual twice.

Even now, she studied the radio operators under the anonymity of her riot helmet. She studied Hsu. She studied even Carrie, of all people. She was her friend, had been for over a decade, and yet… _'She'd be one of the best placed people for the task.'_

"These are your orders." The Colonel handed her a folded parchment. "Signed and approved by your superior."

The Ranger flipped the parchment open, finding pretty much what she expected. Get into Freeside, exploit the chaos and infiltrate the Silver Rush, find evidence to pin the Van Graffs beyond what immunity the New Reno Treaty granted them. The last few lines were the usual trite protocol: no identification, complete anonymity, nothing that could link her with the NCR, no support in case she got caught. Dr. Hildern's signature at the end looked almost smug.

Tanner crumpled the parchment into her fist, then put it into her armor. She'd destroy it back in her quarters.

The floor started shaking as she saluted.

It was brief, if intense. The rack of reports swayed and scattered. The lights overhead swung slightly. The fine china of Hsu's teacup – the only connection to his Shi roots beyond his features, as far as Tanner knew – clinked and rattled on the saucer.

The moment it was past, Colonel Hsu turned to Carrie Boyle. The Lt. was already hunched over a radio, her face intent.

"What was that, Lieutenant?"

Boyle asked for a moment with a raised finger, then her face morphed in horror.

"Sir, I'm patching Major Kieran on your line. You need to hear this."

Tanner knew that her mission was annulled the moment Major Kieran's agitated voice filled the Command Center.

" _McCarran, this is Free Bear Actual! Lt. Boyle! Do you copy me! Over!"_

"Copy 3 out of 5, Free Bear Actual. This is McCarran Actual. Major, what is going on?"

Major Kieran spoke starkly and professionally, even though with some urgency. In the background, Tanner could hear shouted orders and the unmistakable sounds of rounds being chambered.

" _Sir, the Silver Rush just went up like the Oil Rig! The explosion levelled half a block, at least! Over!"_

The Colonel found Tanner's eyeless stare, then he brought the mic closer to his face. "Was it the Kings? Over."

" _I don't know, sir. I don't think so, but there's worse! The King's School was hit not fifteen minutes ago, by NCR forces! Presley King is out of commission, dead or dying, the witnesses can't tell for sure. And Pacer is riling up the rest to attack out position! Over!"_

Tanner now understood the reason for Carrie's horror. _'What kind of madness – no, think clearly.'_ Every minute reaction, every detail could be crucial, and cursing to herself would achieve nothing but distract her.

The Colonel's befuddled expression, quick as he was to school his face again, signaled that he knew nothing of such an attack. Hsu was like a block of concrete as an officer: solid, reliable, uncompromising when it came to his men, and unbreakable. He had become a hero during the Scourge and earned his chevrons by putting his own life on the line, time and again, when Dayglow became Hell on earth.

That much integrity also meant he wasn't any good at subtlety outside tactics and strategy, or even basic lies. It was the kind of direct honesty that garnered support from the rank and file, but in the dog-eat-dog political slaughterhouse of Shady Sands, that had only earned him his thankless current post, to the joy of the men under him.

' _Colonel Moore? No, her wings are clipped this far north. The other Agent the Major said was working in the area? But why so overt? There's no deniability, no plausible scapegoat, no sage egress, no plausible contingency plan. It's just… chaos.'_

"Major, say again," Hsu spoke carefully and deliberately. "NCR forces attacked the King's School?"

" _Positive, sir, and it wasn't my men! I'm running on a skeleton crew already. They say it was an hit-and-run attack with rocket launchers. In one moment, out the next. Wait – a moment please, sir!"_ Static swallowed the Major's voice for long moments, turning the agitated voice on the other side into so much gibberish. Even the other radio stations, with open lines to the Dam, the Embassy and the Ranger Stations scattered all over the Mojave, had fallen silent. Tanner stepped up to the table, frowning under her helmet as she stared down at the tac map, without really looking at it.

It was almost a minute before Major Kieran returned on the line.

" _Sir, I just received a report. The force that attacked the Kings suffered losses. I have confirmation on an identity. Christine Morales, Corporal. Over!"_

"That's brahmin shit!"

Colonel Hsu looked up. Carrie, who had walked over, turned to Tanner in alarm.

"Ranger Tanner?"

Tanner balled her hands into fists, struggling to restore he composure. "Sorry, sir, but that can't be true. Christine's been on special permit for the last week. She went back to California to bury her husband!" _'I saw her to the convoy myself! Goddamnit!'_ "Your man is wrong, ma'am. Over."

" _Ranger, Sergeant Finch assures me he knew Corporal Morales and Ranger Morales personally. Colonel, sir, if Pacer throws the entire strength of the Kings our way, we cannot hold out for long. We've got hundreds of civilians here! Over!"_

Tanner almost bit out that Christine had been a pen-pusher her whole time at McCarran. That she hadn't picked up a rifle outside the practice range since basic. Then the cold, trained mindset of an Office Agent asserted itself like a second skin, smothering the disbelief, anger, and grief under a shroud of professionalism.

If that… if that was really Christine, the only way she'd get involved in an operation like what Kieran was describing was orders from someone at or near the top of the Chain of Command, or completely outside of it. Which could only mean the Office, but why would Hildern, the Major or even the Iron General sic a group of inexperienced and highly recognizable soldiers into the powder keg of Freeside? It didn't make sense.

' _That's because they wouldn't,'_ Garret's voice scratched helpfully in the back of her mind.

"Major, I know of no undergoing operations against the Kings. I certainly didn't order one. Listen: evacuate the civilians into the old train station. Remember the rules of engagement: don't shoot unless they shoot at you first! I'll see what I can do. Over and out."

So who then? Tanner believed Hsu, and Colonel Moore or any officer who ordered such a blunder of an operation would face the court martial in a heartbeat if the orders were traced up to them. Who stood to gain from such a sloppy blunder and the ensuing crisis?

Major Kieran managed to sound neutral, if not particularly hopeful. _"Wilco, sir. Don't forget about us. Over and out."_

Tanner's blood ran cold, then started to boil. She saw the same conclusion she had reached materialize on Carrie's face. The Lieutenant approached the Colonel as he hung up the radio.

"Sir –"

"I know, Lieutenant. This has Gloria Van Graff writ large all over it." Hsu picked up the tea and sipped it, grimacing at the cold liquid. "But we have no proof, or jurisdiction." Tanner could hear the gears in his head spinning. The NCR had no official jurisdiction over Freeside. Squatter Town was an unofficial colony, established and barely tolerated through local diplomacy and the sheer body weight of NCR citizens, but the presence of NCR military personnel was technically trespassing the lines drawn by the Hoover Dam Accords.

In short, Hsu couldn't send anyone from McCarran in without sparking a diplomatic shitstorm with Mr. House and lending credence to Pacer's spiel on the Californian Invaders. And damn well he knew it.

Moreover, with the Fiends swarming out of the ruins in droves, the Colonel likely didn't even have the people to spare. Captain Curtis was in the field. So was Major Dhatri, First Recon, and the few Guard of Iron squads Granite had left behind before departing for Novac.

The clinical part of her mind had to begrudgingly hand it to Gloria Van Graff. It was rough around the edges, but without any substantial proof otherwise, she'd tied up the Colonel's hands, and even Ambassador Crockett's, both militarily and diplomatically. And with the Silver Rush now a smoking crater, any scrap of evidence to justify her arrest was probably ashes.

The other part of Tanner, the one who'd stood as Christine's maid of honor at her wedding, would have been ecstatic to stab her in the gut and then hang her by her own intestines.

Hsu's eyes snapped to her, returning Tanner's attention to the present.

"Ranger, belay your previous orders." The Colonel looked suddenly tired, as if he'd just had to wrestle his own consciousness and morality into a decision he didn't like. He grabbed a pad, gave the pen a twirl in thought, and jotted down a few lines. Carrie looked away, soothing Tanner's doubts in the process, if only by a small margin. The radio operators were hunched over their stations, headphones on even if their hands remained still.

"These are your new orders," Hsu said stonily. Tanner nodded stiffly. Technically, only Dr. Hildern, Major Granite or the Iron General could issue her official orders on the behalf of the Office. However, as a Black One Veteran Ranger and unlike Station or Patrol Rangers, she was also part of the standard chain of command with the rank of first lieutenant. That meant high-ranking officers like Hsu – or, as was often the case with Garret lately, General Wait-and-See himself – could issue her direct orders.

It was a somewhat murky position, especially considering her unofficial affiliation with the Office, but still well within Hsu's authority. Besides, the moment she flipped the parchment open, what desire she may have had to refute dried up. Let Hildern kick up a storm, if he felt slighted that Hsu had overstepped any boundaries.

With a salute, Ranger Tanner strode out and made for her quarters. She changed out of her riot gear, burned Hildern's previous and non-enforceable orders with the new ones as she gulped down an MRE, then dug out a sturdy but anonymous suit of leather armor from under her bunk and shoved it into a duffel, together with a pair of dark-lensed biker goggles and a wide-brimmed hat. In Freeside, House had cameras everywhere.

She was hastily arranging the disassembled pieces of her sniper rifle inside the bag when Carrie very nearly barged through her door without knocking. The look on her face gave Tanner pause.

"Doctor Hildern just received a transmission. From the Strip." Carrie spelled it out like it was her own death sentence. "Mr. House is on the move."

0 * MiA * 0

House's cameras had followed the freakshow Rotface and his gang of wannabe mobsters into a warehouse in one of Freeside's No-Man quarters no gang staked a clear claim on, making them ripe for anyone's picking. First come, first served. It was no surprise the area was so sparsely populated, but maybe that was the whole point of selecting that location as a fallback point. Plenty of space, largely anonymous, no pesky onlookers to bust the party.

John made his way out of the sewers and up the adjacent building like an automaton. He remained silent and out of sight, picking the quickest approach, but his mind was on the task only cursorily. His thoughts, few as they were, chased each other in a circle.

 _Send a message_. His thumb on the trigger. Satisfaction, savage and bloody for a job well done. Pride, even. _Send a message_.

Halfway up the stairs to the third floor of the sand-beaten block of empty offices, John emptied his stomach in a corner, rinsed his mouth with water from the canteen, then puked again.

A running jump carried him from the roof to the warehouse. He rolled as he landed on a fire escape ladder, softening the impact and muffling some of the rattling of rust-eaten metal. The renewed echoes of gunfights drowned the rest. The abandoned metropolis outside Freeside was up in fireworks as well, further south, but if any echoes carried over, they were lost to John. He crept his way up to the next floor, opened the latch securing the broken window from the inside, and then crawled into the office overlooking the stocking space below.

The room was long, narrow, and poorly illuminated between the continued blackout and the late afternoon. A metal desk and a few shelves were in a corner, leaving space aplenty for filth-soaked, lumpy mattresses arranged in no particular order. Cracked plexiglass windows opaque with dust revealed little detail on the area below, but the dregs of conversations wafted up with an acrid stench of smoke and burning cloth, an overlapping blur of drawls, anxious mutters, and nose-stinging fumes. From the sound of it, the Silver Rush's destruction had left them confused, aimless and heedless.

Their distraction would make his work that much easier. An advantage only paid with the blood of God knew how many.

A relieved sigh and the whoosh of the toilet from the cubicle-like bathroom at the far corner of the office, just two long steps away from the catwalk and stairs leading into the storehouse proper, spurred John into motion. Quick, practiced steps carried him across the room as the rickety door slid open. His trench knife left the sheathe with barely a hiss. A horizontal sweep and then a thrust in the opposite direction brought the nameless gangster to a stop with a twitch and barely a gurgle. He collapsed on John, slathering his armor and clothes with arterial blood, eyes empty and hands still on the zip of his pants.

' _It was so easy'_ , he reflected as her lowered the warm corpse on the floor. Killing always was. An ingrained reflex, often as easy as breathing. He was good at it. More than good, if he were to be honest with himself. House had hired him for that exact reason, after all.

Ending a life was so easy, he had grown complacent about it… no, he'd always been so, and worse. He was rash in assessing the danger, greedy when the actual fighting swung around, and careless about the potential consequences. ' _I can do it,'_ he'd think every time, and then the next as well, despite the disastrous results of the previous endeavors. ' _I can protect Goodsprings.' 'I can liberate Primm and free the hostages.' 'I can save Sunny from herself.' 'I can take on whoever's fucking with Nipton.' 'I can send a message and stop the fighting in Freeside.'_

Even now, that thought wormed its way into his brain, filling him with confidence and exhilaration.

John stared at his hands, slick and sticky with the fresh, red blood of just another nameless criminal, and realized that he couldn't remember names or the faces of the girls and women that had died at the Bison Steve Hotel in Primm because he hadn't been good enough.

The family in Goodsprings who'd left behind the blank-faced orphan girl Doc Mitchell took care of, their faces were blurry and undefined. Of the two scavengers Cass and he found poisoned at the hands of the Vipers, he recalled only flashes of purple hair and the jingle of star bottlecaps.

' _I never left word of them with the NCR.'_ Chance was, their bodies were still rotting in the bare skeleton of that motel, food for carrion eaters.

John stared at his trembling hands. His big, murderous hands, drenched with the blood of innocents as much as the scum's and the criminal's. In a matter of weeks, how many lives had he already crushed? How many before that? John's mind flashed back in moments to the chain of events and encounters that had led him where he was from Goodsprings, and found the path behind him soaked with more blood than he could bear to contemplate.

' _Yet what alternative do you have?'_ A smooth voice that sounded unsurprisingly like Mr. House's poured in his ear. _'What else is there to you than those hands, and the pain and harm they can bring? Don't shun your talents now. How else can you hope to find who you were, if not by piling up bodies under your feet?'_

' _But is it worth it?'_ the pestering part of his mind that had taken Jason Bright as a face and voice countered. _'Is this knowledge worth the destruction of your soul and the lives of so many? Selfish and mindless pursuit brought you here and now, but you can still turn page. Let go of the hate, find peace and redemption. Build yourself a new life by shaping your future, not by digging up a past you're best without knowing.'_

The rattle of feet on the metal of the stairs wrenched John away from his mindscape so abruptly, he was almost disoriented to find himself still in the small office, a rapidly cooling body at his feet.

"Paul, boss says we're moving! Drag yar ass out've that hole or we're leaving ya here."

John took a deep, shaky breath.

Then he lowered the thermal optics on his face, primed two flashbangs and tossed them out of the door and down in the warehouse below. The smoke grenades followed even before the first set hit the pavement.

It was easy. Almost as easy as setting off explosive charges with a push of his thumb.

Rotface's goons weren't even people, only flailing blotches of warm colors on the floor below. Left blinded and deafened, coughing and puking their guts out from the sudden sensorial disruption, they lost all trigger discipline and any semblance of order.

The smoke became alive with flashes and cries, gurgles and wet thuds. A gravelly voice snarled at them to stop, but went unheard.

Its owner, Rotface himself, was John's first target. As the smokescreen billowed to swallow everything within the warehouse's walls, John charged down the ramp; he fulminated the goon frozen on the stairs with a burst to the head, then leaped down the rest of the way, landing almost on the zombie with the stupid hat. The mutant swung his gun around, firing wildly.

At point blank, nobody could miss, but the small caliber ricocheted off John's armor; the knuckle guard of John's trench-knife hit zombie flesh instead, cracking Rotface's cheekbone.

The ghoul went out like a light. John threw him behind a stack of crates for good measure, then set out to silencing his gang.

From there, it was a shooting gallery. The thugs had already done a lot of the heavy-lifting for him, cutting down their own by spraying bullets at every sound and perceived threat, blind and yelling as they were. John moved through the thick smoke, executing one or two at a time with three-bullet bursts to the head, then melting away. Anyone who tried to rally and organize the others went down mid-sentence; those who tried and make a break for the doors or windows never reached them.

The MP3SD clicked dry. John swapped out the magazine, then stumbled as a wild blow clipped him in the back. His attacker, a human-shaped blob of yellows and reds, swung a cooling blue rifle at John's head like a club; the cry of victory choked into a gurgle, however, when John's cutting strike crushed his windpipe. A burst to the head put him out of his misery.

Moments later, a full-fledged gang of eighteen was culled to a single, unconscious ghoul and writhing bodies, turning a perfectly viable warehouse into a reeking slaughterhouse. John stood in the midst of the carnage and smoke, hard exhales mixing with the wails of agony and pained sobs from the wounded and dying all around him.

No rest for the wicked. He checked the MP3's mag, then drew the P226 and his trench knife again.

Mr. House wanted only the ringleaders. Gloria and her lieutenants: Rotface, Simon, Santiago, and the Garretts. The zombie's thugs were only loose ends, small-time criminals and murderers the world was better rid of.

Shrill pleas for mercy were cut short by a double-tap to the head or a slit throat. By the end of it, his hands were shaking from the fading throes of adrenaline and the numbing focus of combat was receding from his mind. The smoke from his grenades started to dissipate through the bullet-shaped holes in the walls, but one of the dead thugs had fallen halfway across the crate where the NCR uniforms were burning. Dark smoke slithered around the body, reaching for the scaffolding as the flames started to consume the body, dimming the ambient light further.

In the ensuing silence, the echoes of blaring voices carried from outside, overcoming the petering-out gunfire with synthetic authority. At first, it was only one, then several. Some closer, others more distant, all of them magnified by loudspeakers.

It was enough to shake John into motion again. Behind the bullet-peppered crates, Rotface was just stirring, cradling his open cheek and blinking owlishly with jaundiced eyes only just starting to darken with congealed blood.

Those disgusting eyes found John's.

"Listen, mate," the ghoul started, wincing with every word as he tried to scramble away, pressing instead against the crates. "Ow, fuck me. I don't know what crawled up your ass, but we can find – no, wait!"

John's boot slammed down.

0 * MiA * 0

 _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump_.

To go gung-ho on a group of certified, professional murderers with a personal vendetta on her was, Cass considered through the dull pounding in her head and its echoes spreading through her chest, probably the most moronic thing to date since she first took to the roads, decades ago.

And wasn't that one hell of a lofty crown.

There was that time she played yao guai bait up in Redding. One of the brahmins had headbutted Garland in a panic and the big fucking bear just kept going despite Mahpee's spear in his neck. She'd also been unarmed, save for her hunting knife. But yao guai didn't have thick combat armor or weapons capable of turning her into so much goop and ashes, nor the maliciousness to enjoy every moment of it.

Then there was that time she smuggled Xin away from the Shi's enclave and out of San Fran. That had been pretty fucking hardcore by everyone's book, slipping the equivalent of a Shi princess right under the isolationist slant-eyes' nose.

Granted, her brother Huang had chased after her caravan with one big fucking retinue of the Shi's elite and a couple of Humvees, to preserve the family honor. He'd also caught up on her little caravan not ten miles out of San Fran, what with a brahmin cart being just a tad slower than fusion-powered military vehicles.

But even though the Shi were better armed and trained to boot, they held their peace and kept their word when Garland, always the knight in shining armor when not hopelessly drunk, showed Huang just how much his fancy kung-fu moves were worth in a _really_ dirty fight.

Cass was damn sure she wouldn't find an honorable bone in a Van Graff even if she were to skin the entirety of New Reno.

' _Ain't this some fuckin' retarded shit_. _'_ The exact same kind of suicidal, one-woman show-off jigs the cowboy loved to get his ass into, almost down to a hair if she was outnumbered too. Fucker must be rubbing off on her. But whatever cocktail of meds McPayne had injected into her to deal with her concussion - or rather help her body ignore it for a little while longer -, it was probably affecting her own sense of self-preservation somewhere beneath a bone-wracking headache.

It must be why, crouched behind the corner-desk of a dilapidated Vegas pawn shop, Cass found herself so accepting of her current situation.

The chems also made her heart beat like a jackhammer against her chest. _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump_. Cass breathed slowly, her face one big, sweaty itch under the riot gear she'd borrowed from House's armory.

Suicidal? Apparently, that was her. Still, she wasn't that stupid yet to put herself before some mean DEWs in just her suede jacket, not again at least. Poisoned or not, the Creep's gift was still a gift, and she didn't need to look that gift horse in the mouth.

Not until he vomited up the information on her father's whereabouts.

Cass mentally strangled that line of thought back into the hole where it belonged. John and John ought to keep each other company. She couldn't afford to zone out. Not right there and then.

Her palms were so sweaty, without the armored gloves her shotgun would just slip from her hands.

' _Get a grip, girl. New pair of balls or not, these ain't no half-witted raiders throwing junk you gotta kill.'_

It was weird, and yet, in hindsight, so fucking obvious she felt double the fool now. Maybe the concussion had dislodged some of the pussy-footing clogging her gray matter, but really, Jean Baptiste's fuck-you raid at the Blue Suede Chapel had spelled the only real solution out loud and clear from the get-go.

She'd just been deluding herself by drenching her brain silly, searching for another option that just wasn't there. Or maybe she'd known, and she'd just been postponing, because she was a fucking coward.

She could almost imagine Garland's chiding expression across a campfire, while Xin, fast asleep, drooled all over his shoulder and duster like a hundred times before. _"Who are you, and what you did with my caravan boss? Damn, Cass. So what if there's four or five of'em, and just one of yours truly? Law of surprise rules."_

Whatever the case, alcohol and flight were the cowardly ways out. The same brand of cowardly shit that took her over since the Rangers told her the caravan was ashes in the wind, shit she justified to herself under the guise of common sense, booze, and even goddamned Med-X.

Well, that cowardly shit could all go to hell in a handbasket.

She hadn't realized how tired of _that_ Cass she was, the passive, reactionary tough-face but limp-wristed woman who made a prison out of her own fear and depression, until the Dr. Orderly shot her with his little pick-me-up formula and House told her just where and when to find Gloria fucking Van Graff.

No, there never was any other real option. It was her, or the Van Graffs, and despite everything the Mafiosos had tried and thrown her way, she was still in the game. House's plots may or may not put the Mafioso family into the ground back in Reno, but whatever the result, Ms. Buzzcut Shitface had to go first, six feet under and her body weighed down by a good serving of wasteland justice.

If nothing else, so that Mahpee's guardian spirits wouldn't torment her for the rest of her days.

 _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump_.

Cass checked the special ammo she'd borrowed for the occasion, then glanced at the blocky and barely-distinguishable silhouette rippling the air near the main entrance. The Pip-Boy told her she still had some time, though not much, before House's light-show got in full swing.

 _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump_.

 _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump_.

House's intel turned out to be creepily spot-on once again. She wasn't ten, excruciatingly-infinite minutes into the crouching-and-stiffening-routine when the screech of rusted hinges echoed from further into the pawn shop. A muffled crash followed as the basement doors leading into a tunnel underneath Freeside's walls were flung open quite forcefully, drowning the steps of her targets for a short while. At least, she hoped it was them…

 _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump_.

No, it had to be them. It had to be! Who else would walk a smuggler's path to sneak _into_ Freeside, with all the smoke and shit blowing over the city pushing people out?

Cass braced the Remington against her shoulder. Underneath the riot helmet, her face was unbearably hot. Beads of sweat poured down her face in gallons, drenching her hair and neck. She swallowed spit, but her throat remained as parched and dry as the fucking desert.

 _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump_.

"- and I want you to round up Rotface and his men. Take them to the Okra, recover the stash there, and prep it for the delivery."

The voice carried through the empty rooms of the pawn shop, the echo bouncing off the walls and growing fainter as they approached. It wasn't a panicky voice either. Seething and furious in spades, but the bitch sounded in control, no matter that the cowboy and the Creep just blew up her power seat to high heaven from under her ass.

"Can we trust him, miss Gloria?"

"I believe I gave you an order, didn't I? The ghoul's into this as much as we are, he doesn't have a choice. As long as we deliver the goods to the Good Man, we'll still come out on top."

' _The Good Man? Why does that sound so fuckin' familiar?'_ Cass blinked away a bead of sweat, holding her breath as the echo of the steps merged with the actual sound until they were one single sound. In the last of the afternoon sun, the light of an electric torch bathed a distant wall, then spread in a swooping cone, growing wider with proximity.

"Beg your pardon, miss Gloria, but how? The Rush's smoke'n cinders –"

"- and you'll be too if you don't shut up, Avit. Simon holds the Mormon Fort, the Kings are out for NCR blood, and the Fiends at least are doing what's asked of them. All that's left is holding out for Mama's reinforcements, and let our enemies rip each other apart."

 _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump_.

Good Man, the Fiends. Cass' mind was reeling, trying to slot the pieces together on the hazy and spotty image she'd begun constructing… but then there she was. The Head Mafioso Bitch and her four meathead goons, strutting like mother duck and her ducklings from some old fairy tale twisted in poor taste.

The Van Graff lug in the lead splashed the large and empty exposition area with his flashlight, and Cass ducked behind the counter. A few steps now from the big, red cross on the pavement. Cass' hands started to hurt from how tightly she was gripping the shotgun.

 _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump_.

' _Just a few steps… Walk, you bitch, come on! There, move those fuckin' legs!'_

The air around the main entrance to the pawn shop rippled and warped. A Securitron appeared in a crack of ozone, pronged arms leveled and gatling barrels poking out. A voice to match the cartoonish soldier on the monitor echoed thunderously.

"Gloria Van Graff, you and your associates are under arrest for assault, first-degree murder, instigation to murder, destruction of public property and smuggling, among other charges. Please allow me to escort you to the nearest criminal processing facility. Resistance will be -"

The torch clattered to the ground, splashing light and shadows all over the Securitron and the walls as it rolled. Laser lances and plasma bolts slammed into the Securitron next. In another occasion, Cass would have rolled her eyes. That spiel gave the Van Graffs more than enough time to recover from the shock. Their instincts overrode it, and the guns came out.

Of course they fucking would.

House was waiting only for that, the self-satisfied creep. A personal attack to him was just the icing on the Freeside cake.

The Securitron chassis buckled and sparked under the onslaught. The titanium plating held somewhat, melting and denting in places, but a bolt resected an arm at the joint, and more slammed center-mass. The reinforced armaglass of the TV screen simply exploded, sending the wheeled robot careening with a scream of melting machinery.

Cass rose from hiding and put the lead goon in her sights. Her shotgun barked, the muzzle flashing in the dim light just as three more Securitrons materialized at the corners of the room.

The armor piercing slug impacted the henchman in the chest as he was turning. The incendiary chemicals in the slug ignited on impact, and combat armor could do little against a sudden, split-second long spike of three-thousand degrees Celsius. The slug punched through, and the goon crumpled on his back, wide-eyed surprise frozen on his face.

Cass worked the pump action, but her next shot went wild as a bolt of plasma struck her in the belly. The riot-gear armor cracked and smoked, dozens of blackened lines spreading, but it held and only slivers of heat reached Cass' skin underneath. By then, the Securitrons had opened up in controlled burst of laser fire and poetic justice as they rolled closer. The energy beams scythed low, shooting the Van Graffs' legs to ribbons where the combat armor was thinner or just wasn't there.

One, two, then the all the henchmen fell screaming, clutching the seared stumps at their knees and melted legs.

Cass, however, noticed them only in passing. Plasma defender still in hand, Gloria chose the best part of valor and bolted for the street, taking a running leap over the destroyed Securitron.

Maybe it was those damned drugs again, making her forget the big fucking gun in her hands. Maybe it was just the adrenaline narrowing her vision to a pulsating tunnel.

Cass vaulted over the counter and tackled Gloria mid-jump.

Her shoulder dug into the bitch's belly, and the crack of Gloria's ribs or the pained, abrupt exhale under her own armored bulk were among the most melodious sounds Cass'd ever heard. The crunch of her armored fist on her nose and the cartilage crumpling in a bloody spray were even better.

Gloria was a feisty bitch, however. She tried to knee Cass, but hit only armor, though. The thud barely registered as Cass straddled the Head Mafioso Bitch and smacked the hand holding the plasma defender away from her face. A green after-image filled half her vision as the energy gun discharged, sending a bolt against the far ceiling. Cass grabbed Gloria's wrist and slammed it against the broken tiles of the pavement, again and again.

The gun kept firing, the bolts slamming into the downed Securitron and all over the shop. Gloria's fist connected with Cass's armored temple, making her ears ring and her head almost split in two with a new surge of pain, but Gloria cried in anguish at her cracked fingers, then cried again as Cass smashed the wrist into the floor again, hard enough to snap it.

Panting, Cass straightened and piston-punched her fist into Gloria's face.

THUD!

"This is for Mahpee!"

SLAM!

"This is for Garland!"

WHACK!

"This is for my fuckin' brahmins!"

 _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump_.

Gloria moaned under her and spat blood and a broken tooth on her helmet. Cass kept straddling her, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Her heartbeat drowned every other sound, every other thought, anything but the visage of the murderous, scheming bitch who'd taken everything and everyone from her. And for what?

"For what, you fucking shitsack?! Power? Caps? Get off to screwin' people over?!"

Gloria hacked a glob of blood with some more white in it, then cracked a weak, infuriating grin missing more than a few teeth. Cass cocked her shaking fist back to hit the bitch again, then realized it didn't fucking matter. And hearing the answer, any answer, whatever the fuck classified as a reason in the bitch's deranged head, would only make her more pissed.

Slowly, her knees left the ground. She grimaced with the effort and Gloria thrashed weakly in pain, but a boot in the ribs was more than enough to silence her complaints.

"Not so tough without your brownnosers 'round, ain't you?" Another kick, and the crack of breaking ribs had Gloria fail to muffle a cry of pain.

Gloria's bitch eyes, clouded with pain, finally zeroed on her, and Cass ground her teeth as Gloria's broken, jagged smirk grew cocky at the sight of the Browning 9mm aimed in Cass' hand, aimed squarely at her face.

"Oh, I know who you are –" Gloria rolled her head to the side, then hacked and spat out another tooth. "You won't shoot me, Rosey. You can't shoot me. I'm way out of your league, you little second-rater."

 _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump_.

"House can tout his robots all he likes, but I've got immunity from the NCR. You shoot me, they'll lock you up in Tibbets Prison and throw away the key into a radscorpion pit. You don't, and I've got the caps to walk free. And then I'm going to kill you." Gloria's bloodied smile widened. She didn't even make an effort to pick herself up from the pavement. "Slowly. One day for every tooth. I'm going to enjoy hearing you scream. Either way, I win. You lose. Your move, Rosey."

 _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump_.

Cass lowered the 9mm, then stiffly removed the riot helmet and let it clatter to the ground. The cooling air of an early evening hit her sweltering face, and so did the unfiltered smells and weakening groans and pleads from the wounded goons going into shock.

 _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump_.

"Oh, if only –" Gloria grimaced in terrible pain. Her voice assumed a wheezing quality, but her mocking smile didn't waver," if only you could see your face now. So much hatred… priceless."

 _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump_.

Cass holstered the Browning, then lowered on one knee, and picked up Gloria's plasma defender.

"Cut the verbal diarrhea, bitch. You assume they'll ever find your body," Cass growled slowly, levelling the defender at Gloria's face. The barrel shook slightly, but it never erred from the Cajun woman's face. "You've made a right mess of Freeside. Lots of fuckin' dead people. What's one more pool of plasma goo in an ol' pawn shop?" She cocked the gun to the side, and bent lower, suppressing a grimace of pain and exhaustion to hiss in Gloria's face.

"I tell you what it is. The start of a fuckin' family tradition. When a Cassidy shoots, a Van Graff two-bit Mafioso shitstain dies."

Gloria's expression remained confident as she picked herself up on her elbows. A challenge shone in her eyes and was delivered by a half-chuckle, half-snort.

"You won't. Your boss won't allow you."

 _Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump_.

"When you see your daddy, tell him this was for Xin and for the little tyke, you fuckin' bitch!"

Cass depressed the trigger and her yell of pain bounced off the walls. The defender, barrel still glowing hot, hit the ground, even as the bolt ate into the ceiling somewhere. With a whirr of mechanical strength, the Securitron yanked her arm even higher, forcing her on her tiptoes, sending agony lancing up her shoulder.

"I'm disappointed. I thought I phrased my orders clearly enough, Ms. Cassidy," Mr. House berated, his smooth voice neutral and unsurprised, "Gloria Van Graff is to be taken alive, I believe I said."

"Fuck. Fuck! Lemme go, you –" The prongs ensnaring her wrist like a vice clicked open, and Cass wobbled down to one knee, breathing heavily and glowering.

"She killed my family!" she managed to spit out. Cass hated herself for how pitiful and whiny that sounded.

Gloria _laughed_ , short and breathless, propping her body further up. "An eye for an eye, Rosey. Now, Mr. House, I believe that by the New Reno treaties –"

"Silence," House ordered, and in the restricted confines of the pawn shop, his voice was magnified in intensity and authority. The Securitron that stopped Cass, now graced with House's creepy mug, rotated to face Gloria. Its screen started flashing in bright pulses of color, changing so rapidly, Cass' eyes couldn't keep up. Agony spiked around her eyes, bringing out tears of pain. Starting to feel her gullet heave, she quickly looked away.

Gloria's reflexes, due to the beating or just satisfied complacency, weren't as ready.

The Head Mafioso Bitch groaned, her shoulders shaking as tears streaked down her paling cheeks. Then her head lolled to one side, she half-turned on her bruised ribs, and emptied her stomach on the smoking wreck of the Securitron.

The two other Securitrons rolled up and around their destroyed, stained brethren. Their clawed prongs closed around Gloria's shoulders, lifting her clear off the ground and depositing her in the waiting arms of the third, who'd stopped doing whatever the fuck made Cass's stomach lick the back of her teeth. The mechanical arms closed around her mid-section and arms like a bear trap, trapping Gloria's slack form.

"Freeside is under my recognized legal jurisdiction, and I'm not beholden to any treaty the NCR signed with some jumped-up thugs and criminals. You broke my law, up to the point of destroying one of my Securitrons and attacking one of my employees."

"There is no law in Freeside! Only people with power, and those too weak and stupid to hold it!" Gloria snarled and spat, spittle flying everywhere. Despite the pain spreading from her shoulder – dislocated, with her fucking luck – and the few tears still blurring her vision, Cass finally had the satisfaction of seeing Gloria's smug, proud visage crack. Be it from the pain and lingering sickness, or just sinking realization, Cass didn't know.

What she knew was that it wasn't her doing. Cass spat on the ground, thankful for the bone-deep exhaustion numbing the crippling sense of failure.

The blare of crowd-control rated speakers made itself known and well fucking heard right at that moment. At first, it was a single robotic voice, the affected military gruffness somewhat stretched thin as it transmitted loud enough to be heard over the chattering report of gunfire echoing in earnest from the NCR Squatter Town and the Spanish Quarter. Then more joined the first, the volume and spread increasing by the second, like beacons igniting all over town.

A minute later, the overlapping result was so loud and blanketing, even Cass found herself wincing in discomfort.

"It's over," House stated, oozing smugness to the point Cass almost felt sick again. "Your so-called power is broken. The time of chaos and disorder ends with you. The rule of my law begins today in Freeside. And by that same law, your associates and you, Ms. Van Graff, will be trialed and found guilty of every charge levelled against you. You have my word on that."

0 = MiA = 0

 _AN: I am a cruel bastard to my characters. Nothing new under the sun. Anyway, man, this chapter was hard to write. Long Cass' POVs always are, especially since I experimented a bit with her close 3_ _rd_ _POV narration, trying to make her thoughts bleed in more organically. Moreover, even after extensive rewriting, Cass' confrontation with Gloria feels more underwhelming that it's supposed to be. Feedback on that would be much appreciated. Anyway:_

 _House's flashing nausea-inducing screen is essentially an in-universe version of the LED Incapacitator, an incapacitating, non-lethal device issued to law enforcement and border patrols. Considering that Securitrons are, who would have thought, security robots, and the period they were designed and developed by House, it seems like a reasonably small, extra feat._

 _For those of you who feel that House is getting away with too much, too cleanly and too easily, remember that he's been simulating and planning his every move for years now, and he's playing on his home turf. Besides, nobody likes an incompetent villain._

 _Finally, a small request. My Novac chapters are rather infamous among my readership for being something of a slog, due to excessive detail and lingering too much in the same place. I think I'm doing better with these Freeside chapters, but as the author, my opinion tends to be partial. So, for all of you out there, if you include_ _#NovacReturns_ _in your_ _ **reviews**_ _, followed hopefully by the reasons why you think that is the case, then I'll know I've fucked up, and I'll shift the chapters structure to remedy that._

 _Thank you for reading, and thanks to all those who favored and put this story on alert. Story's actually broken the 50 followers milestone, which is pretty sweet._ _ **Don't forget to leave a review!**_ _The Overlord of Vegas demands it. Peace._


	20. 18) Freeside Whac-A-Mole

**Missing in Action 18) Freeside Whac-A-Mole**

 _AN: My thanks to *Takes a deep breath *_ _ **Aegon Blacksteel, Paladin Bailey, Master Doom Maker (x4), Solivore (x4), HelveticaStandard, Winding Warpath (x3), PartyPat22, Spoderman77, ScrimshawPen (x8), Mogryking, Guest #1**_ _(I'll do that one day. However, manners make the man, and yours are poor)_ _ **, Jacob Sailer (x2), DocMarter2525 (x2), DmCrebel25 (x19!)**_ _,_ _ **WilSquare, The Desert Dancer (x6),**_ _ **optimusprime22, Guest#2**_ _(Thank you. Here, have more), and_ _ **colstrent (x6)**_ _for their reviews, critiques, advice, and feedback. Thank you all._

 _Regarding the lateness of this chapter, my apologies. I got caught up finishing_ _ **The Thin Line**_ _and indeed, that story is complete (though a sequel will come out in the future), so go give it a try if you haven't already._

0 = MiA = 0

How long had he been awake, Boone didn't know anymore. McCarran? Since the Van Graff's attack, probably even before that. How long ago was it? A day, maybe two. He couldn't really tell. The sun had risen and set; now it painted a tattoo on the back of his neck again, but all the smoke and dust reduced the passage of time to a guess.

He couldn't remember not being exhausted; the numbness spread to his mind as well, enough to stop him from agonizing over Carla and his daughter, when and where it all began. He didn't deserve the respite, but he couldn't just stand and do nothing either. Collapsing wasn't an option either. Death and suffering were all around him. It was what he deserved, what he would get. One day. Not yet.

Most people in Freeside didn't, but at this point, Boone knew that the world didn't really give a fuck. So they all got what they didn't deserve, while he still waited.

A duo of Securitrons rolled past him as he dug graves in the potter's field, spouting their warnings through loudspeakers. The battle was over. Gloria Van Graff and her accomplices were under arrest. The battle was over. Presley King was alive. The battle was over. Anyone found carrying a weapon without authorization would be shot. The battle was over. Those who wished for food and water should come to the Strip's gates.

The battle was over, but for the Followers, the real battle was just beginning. Boone wiped the sweat from his brow, smearing it with dirt, and looked up. The Followers' flag flew over the Mormon Fort again, upside down in an unanswered call for help. The Van Graffs had just given up and threw down their arms once the Securitrons paraded a beaten and bloody Gloria under the walls. The thugs had been dragged out; doctors and patients walked back in, just ahead of the flood of wounded.

Boone grabbed the offered hand and climbed out of the hole. With twin grunts, he picked up Bill Ronte by the armpits; the young King ganger grabbed the legs, looking away from the melted side of the dead man's torso. A heave, a thud. Boone grabbed the shovel and began to throw the dirt over the man he'd been helping fixing generators before the madness exploded.

No, not madness. Madness didn't have a method. Madness didn't have a purpose. Madness was just an excuse for those who couldn't face the horror and recognize they too were capable of it. Once, young and naïve, he too had thought raiders and Khans mad.

All around him, people dug, heaved, threw, then kept digging. Kings, common people, and NCR citizens alike numbered among the living and the dead, the latter pacified by a shared sense of loss, weariness, and the Securitrons ever watchful eye. A few people wept alone. Not many: the living took precedence over the dead. Little distinction was made on who was buried where. Corpses decomposed quickly in the Mojave heat; Julie Farkas wanted to avoid the risk of plague on top of destruction and famine.

His eyes stopped on an NCR soldier. Young, his face as brown with dirt as his armor. His caretakers rolled him into the grave with a kick. There were no soldiers to salute their companion. No casket or folded flag for him, just a hole in the potter's field. The cross they planted in the fresh dirt had his name etched on it, but it'd be months before his family in California knew, if ever.

The next body in line for him was mangled and burned. A King ganger, by what remained of him. The young King beside him choked a sob, his eyes dry from too many dead and mild dehydration. Boone left him to his grief and started attacking the hard-packed desert ground. Had the ganger died in the attack on the School, or in the assault on Squatter Town?

The shovel bit the ground more forcefully. The results of Pacer's hateful madness danced before his mind's eye, burned into his memory through the narrow cone of his scope.

Droves of Kings had attacked the shantytown around the old train station; the NCR troops that shouldn't have been there but everyone knew were anyway fired back, outnumbered five to one. Molotovs and grenades flew; the shantytown burned. He remained where he was, perched nearby Beatrix Russell's house in the Spanish quarter. Too far away to help, too aware of the dozens of helpless people squatting in the gutted building as the Ghost Vaquero, his Caballeros, and the furious civilians of the Spanish Quarter fought and hunted down the thugs in Van Graff colors that invaded their homes.

He should've helped, but he decided the helpless doctors and wounded needed his protection more. He should've moved, lined the shot, and killed Pacer, beheading the assault, but he didn't. Judging by the wild rumors going around, someone else had, just as the assault reached its climax and the Kings were about to storm the train station, where the civilians were hiding. One shot, clear through the chest.

Not his. He could have taken it sooner. However, he was where it mattered when the gang leader Santiago and what remained of his forces decided that taking the rest of the Followers hostage was a good way to save their hides from the Vaquero, hot on their heels.

Five bullets. Four bodies. He left Santiago to the Caballeros, but they didn't rip him limb from limb because by then, the Securitrons were rolling all over Freeside. Squatter Town was burning, but dozens of the robots cowed the leaderless Kings, disarmed them, apprehended the lieutenants, and put the others to work. The boy digging graves with him was one of them. From what he gathered, Major Kieran's remaining soldiers saw a similar treatment for breaking the Hoover Dam Accords by virtue of being in Freeside on duty. Word was she had been swallowed by the Lucky 38, right after Gloria and her surviving lieutenants.

The heat of anger seeped from his limbs. Boone kept digging mechanically, joined by the young King. Bodies of all kinds were carried out of Freeside's gates faster than the graves were dug: burned ones from the Van Graffs' attack, Securitrons' law enforcement, or Squatter Town's fires, quelled only recently; others shot to hell from the gunfights all over Freeside; crushed ones from the King's School and the Van Graff district, levelled by the explosion of the Silver Rush. He'd seen volunteer crews and House's prisoners at work there under the Securitrons' supervision, digging through the rubble and extracting dead and living alike.

One foot from completing the next one, the young King's irregular digging at the other end stopped. Words were exchanged and the ganger scampered out of the hole; another shovel attacked the ground behind him.

The woman was tall and athletic under a dirty leather jacket with a high collar. Between the wide-brimmed hat, goggles, and a loose scarf, he saw nothing of her face, just strands of brown hair falling over her face. It didn't matter. Even without the scratchy quality of the riot helmet, he recognized her voice.

"Keep digging," Ranger Tanner whispered. The shovel fell. A grunt, a heave, and another heap of dirt over the edge. "The Securitrons record everything."

"You said no contact," he grunted around parched lips.

"The situation changed when the Butcher blew up the Silver Rush on House's orders."

Boone's eyes focused to beads on the tip of the shovel. "It was him?"

"We have no confirmation, but the timing can't be a coincidence. Modus operandi matches the Infiltrators' too." She hit a rock, cursed, and dug around it. "You must be ready to make contact. Might be your only chance."

"When?"

A Securitron rolled by, three graves to their right, cartoonish face fixed and intent. Tanner didn't utter another word until the robot trundled out of sight.

"Soon. House is distributing food at the Strip's gates as the carrot to the Securitrons' stick; we think the Followers will be next. Hopefully, Doe will be involved somehow. Keep your eyes open for him; offer your gun for a fee, but get into his retinue. House is moving in the open, but he'll keep his attack dog in the shadows; you need to be there too. Finding Doe's comrades remains your long-term priority, but anything on House's future intentions will help us immensely."

Boone grunted in assent. The political implications and branching possibilities flew over his head beyond the immediate. It was one thing to spot the obvious when hidden in plain sight or hear the truth behind some politician's electoral bullshit. This level of scheming was not what he'd been trained or had a mind for: what he was trained for was precluded to him, but he was still a soldier, even if the Office and this woman manipulated him into becoming another pawn in their schemes.

Ranger Tanner swapped out for the young King two graves later. A boy, no older than ten, pulled at his shirt halfway through the third, panting from a long run.

"Señor Boone? Doctora Farkas asked for you at the Fort."

The half-melted, blackened carcass of the ambulance was heaped to the side of the Fort's gates, allowing for the endless procession of stretchers and people in and out. Securitrons patrolled the area, enforcing order with robotic efficiency and spewing House's spiel, but not lifting a claw to help otherwise. The wounded that didn't fit in the tents lay on extra cots and blankets on the ground, wailing, moaning, begging, or laughing in disbelief at a diagnosis of upcoming death; to Boone, the silent ones were the loudest, their wordless pleas and begging the closest to home.

The Followers were reduced to brahmin sinew and wonderglue to sew wounds shut, cheap booze as disinfectant, and healing powders for painkillers. Boone knew Julie Farkas had stretched the Followers' supplies to the limit, but that limit had long since been reached and surpassed. The small army of doctors, nurses, interns, and volunteers, by the fatigue of their hollow faces, weren't lagging too long behind, ambling like sleepwalkers and munching on mentats to stay awake and sharp.

What proper meds he saw applied, by the looks of it, were brought in by the friends and family of the wounded, with the vocal, attached demand they be used on their loved ones first. He walked past Followers trying to argue and persuade against that, but none conceded, even if there were people two blankets away who even he could tell needed a stimpak or pill more.

He found the Followers' leader near the entrance of the surgical theater, still clad in blood-splattered scrubs and with a mask hanging around her neck. She looked like she'd slept less than he did and spent all that time scalpel in hand, but that didn't stop her from whipping up another doctor in the middle of a nervous breakdown.

"Luria, listen to me. Listen. I need you to go out there and buy supplies." Julie's eyes were bloodshot, her voice rough, but her tone of command almost made Boone snap to attention. His muscles were too tired, however, to follow instinct. Looking down, he realized he was still holding the shovel for some reason. "There's nobody else. Arcade is with the Vaquero, Emily's wounded, and I need April for surgeries. You have to go."

Dr. Luria shook her head, hugging her sides and heaving a choking sob. "I-It's useless. T-there's too many, Julie. It's like the Dam, like D-Dayglow, a-all over again!"

"You made an oath," Julie insisted, shaking the other doctor by the shoulders. "We all made it. The day we dismiss our patients because it's the easy thing is the day we hand in our coats and stop calling ourselves doctors. Are you going to let these people die because you're afraid?"

"I don't want to die!" Luria shouted back, past the point of caring who might overhear her. "They'll get me before I reach the gates! W-We should've never come here, Julie! The Mojave's a deathtrap! First Kana on that delivery, then Alvarez in Novac, now Terence and Janna -"

Luria's head snapped to the side, silenced by a slap. Before the panicking doctor could gather her wits, she found herself wrapped in Julie's arms, not unlike a mother consoling a child. Boone's heart gave a twinge.

"It's okay to be afraid. I'm afraid too, terrified," Julie soothed Luria, "we all are. But we're all these people have. We can't give up, no matter how hard it gets, because nobody else will do anything but stand and watch, heap more grief, or just turn away. Nobody else cares enough." Farkas held the other doctor at arms' length, looking at her straight in the eye. "This is our burden, our vocation, our duty as doctors. Don't give up on me now. Don't give up on them."

Luria met Farkas' eyes, nodded shakily, then furiously wiped away at her face. As she did so, the other doctor turned to Boone, who was standing some distance away to give the two women some space.

"And I won't send you alone, not with the chaos outside. Boone, right? I need a favor from you." Boone nodded for lack of anything to say. Farkas picked up a large bag and tossed it at him; it jingled with caps as he grabbed it. "We just received a hefty donation from a caravaneer. Over three thousand caps." Boone's eyebrows peeked above the edge of his shades. "I know, it's a small miracle, God bless her. Listen, I need you to escort Luria on a supply run; we're out of pretty much everything. Can you do it?"

Despite the phrasing, it wasn't a question; they both knew it. Still, Boone felt he could say no. If Tanner was correct, John Doe could pop up any minute at the Old Mormon Fort; he should stay there. Wait for him, surrounded by people suffering and dying because he refused to help, refused to act when he could and others didn't.

"Why me?" He asked over the din of the field hospital, a concession to conscience and hesitation.

"Our security detail right now is either dead, Kings, or Caballeros. None of them will get into Crimson's compound or McCarran, and Luria won't by association," Farkas said, then pointed at his beret, poking out of a pant pocket. "You will, however, and right now, I trust you more than I trust most of them. The Vaquero's refused to share his supplies unless we treat his people first; Arcade's team is doing just that, but we need supplies now."

She stepped up to him. "The Followers' Cross doesn't grant immunity anymore and people are getting more desperate by the hour. Arcade told me about what you did in Novac. You fought for us here. You were there when Beatrix died." She paused on the ghoul's name. The Vaquero had taken what remained of her away, last he heard. Caballeros taking care of their own, he said. "You're better with that gun than anyone here and there're more caps in that bag than most families in Freeside see their entire lives. I need to be sure Luria won't be mugged and those supplies will get here. Everyone's depending on this: we're out of pretty much everything."

The shovel _thudded_ point first in the dirt. He handed the bag to Dr. Luria, then hefted his pistol, checking the magazine. "McCarran has none to spare. I was there the other day," he only half-lied. Contreras would have some, obscenely overpriced, but the Office's orders were to avoid NCR army camps at all costs. The Crimson Caravan compound was fair game.

"Then grab everything Crimson has on offer. Every last stimpak, bandage, and antibiotic." Farkas rubbed her eyes with an unsteady hand, her shoulders drooping in exhaustion. Deep inhale, slow exhale; she regarded him with a look that was half determination and half desperation. "Make every single cap count."

0 * MiA * 0

Sleeping pills granted John over a day of dreamless rest, but the memories of his actions were there to confront him the moment his eyes opened again, vivid and taunting. Even in the sanitized air of the Lucky 38 and after two showers, the smell of smoke and burned flesh clogged his nostrils and throat in a constant itch.

A note from Cass waited in the hallway, a simple piece of paper folded in two and pinned by an ashtray. John read it, crumpled it in his fist, and threw it in the garbage bin, but before Ambrogio and its cleaning routines could fall upon the offending piece of paper, he picked it up again, smoothed it with the ashtray, then closed it in the same drawer with Boone's sketch of Benny.

Mr. House's summon to the attic and the chair under the looming screen came shortly after. To John's self-disgust, he spared some words of praise for his work during the Van Graff insurgence, but the man-machine's mind was already projected to the future.

"Ms. Van Graff and three of her lieutenants are currently guests in the holding cells a few levels below us. So is Major Kieran from the NCR, caught red-handed breaking the Hoover Dam Accords. Unfortunately, the King leader Pacer died in the disorders, or he too would be sharing my hospitality. Soon, they'll all be processed publicly, but the time isn't right yet. Some pieces aren't in the right position and Freeside needs to recover first before I bring the NCR to the table for a much-delayed update to the Accords."

On and on Mr. House droned, not minding John's silence. Beyond the panoramic windows, smoke and dirt still hung heavy over Freeside, but not thick enough that John couldn't see the crater where the Silver Rush stood only two days before. Buildings in a large swathe around it were flattened piles of rubble; tiny, human shapes bustled around them, looking hard at work even from so far away. The huge breakfast his stomach had demanded from Ambrogio started to crawl up his gullet.

"What are you doing to help?" he asked when he realized House wasn't speaking anymore.

"Considering that no tourist will move through Freeside after recent events, I've set up a temporary food station near the Strip gates; my Securitrons will distribute some of the Lucky 38's stock to citizens and keep the order, while some of my maintenance robots shall begin fixing wells and water pumps all over the city. Later on, once the blackout is resolved and the famine prevented, a long-term solution will be implemented. The question you should ask instead, Mr. Doe, is what you will do to help Freeside."

The crater burned into his eyes. How many? How many people, innocent people, had died in that detonation, because once again he rushed without thinking? That familiar pressure in his chest he'd learned to recognize as guilt tried to choke the words in his throat.

"I think I've done more than enough already."

"I do not pay you to remain idle, Mr. Doe, and the resources I've assigned to investigate your past, or care for Ms. Santangelo, can be reassigned any time. I'm preparing a shipment for the Followers of the Apocalypse; once it's ready, you'll deliver it. Presently."

The screen winked out, preventing any form of response but compliance. On the elevator ride down to the armory, his forehead pressed against the glass, he remembered the last line of Cass' short message; stirring, he climbed up again to the suite instead and had a quick talk with Ambrogio.

A whirr of robotic activity welcomed him to the Clinic not too long afterward; it took a few moments for Veronica to notice him standing in the doorway, food tray in hand, and look away from the Mr. Handys removing one of the Auto-Docs from its lodging in the floor. Lyons' eyebot sat in her lap, parts of its casings removed to show the circuits inside.

"You brought me breakfast?"

He tried to smile for her sake but wasn't really successful. "More like early lunch at this point."

"Attaboy! I thought that crazy Mr. Orderly was trying to poison me. Hospital slop makes me wish for pork n' beans, or IV feeding." A small smile teased her cheeks, not helped by the large bruises around her eye and throat. They awkwardly traded tray for robot and John brought up a chair, then propped his elbows on the deactivated bot in his lap.

"Hey, don't watch me eat. It's creepy."

That elicited a chuckle out of him; to his ears, it sounded like two stones grinding together. Veronica hesitated, then attacked the large breakfast with gusto; scarfing down toast, scrambled eggs, bacon, butter, marmalade, and of course Cram, interjecting every odd bite with a hum of bliss. Her broken arm was free from the splint he remembered from his previous day's visit, but she still moved it gingerly, testing it even as she ate.

Dr. McPayne and his cockney nosiness were conspicuously absent. So were several crates of medical supplies he remembered stacked into one corner, and the Auto-Doc wasn't long after them. Veronica's exoskeleton was folded beside some clothes on one table, just like Marylyn assured it would be, but John's roaming gaze eventually stopped on the only other occupied bed in the Clinic.

The handsome man who lay on it was pale and unconscious. An endotracheal tube disappeared into his lax mouth, making his neck bulge out not unlike an angry frog's; his chest rose and fell in a steady, artificial rhythm dictated by the beeping lung ventilator behind the bed's headboard. An IV dripped some feeding solution into his arm, while a blood-pressure cuff squeezed his other bicep every odd minute.

Presley King seemed to frown even in his medical coma and John couldn't blame him; he wondered how the gang leader would react when he woke up and realized where he was. House had called him an _idealist_ and the _key to Freeside_ during their short meeting, but after what he'd seen of his Kings in the past few days, John had his doubts.

 _"He tried to protect his people, to give them a dream,"_ the nagging Jason-Bright voice argued, _"and maybe he failed, but isn't the intention what matters? Isn't it enough that he tried?"_

Sure enough, John considered, the man didn't detonate a small fusion bomb in the middle of the city. It was almost ironic that a week ago, he'd knocked out that nutter Haversam and delivered him to NCR Intelligence to prevent a much similar event.

"You look a thousand miles away. Or like someone with a man-crush. Even I can see the charm of those broad shoulders. Just a little."

John blinked, shaken out of his morbid reverie. He met Veronica's arched eyebrow with a flat look, but then he chuckled again despite himself.

"I bet you know all about those. How's it going?"

"The magical Auto-Doc pieced me back together before I knew it, but I've got to admit, all this white gets pretty dull after a while and the conversation isn't the best. Present company not included." She searched his face, an unvoiced request clear under the humor. John didn't blame her even for a moment.

"All those supplies and the Auto-Doc are for the Followers. If you're up to it, I can give you a lift to the Old Mormon Fort; you said you wanted to work with them, right?"

"Really?! I mean -" Veronica trailed off, looking over John's shoulder. He didn't need to turn to see the single Securitron still standing guard at the Clinic's entrance there. "You did hear I'm Brotherhood at the Tops, right? Cass missed that and things got... ugly is a way to put it. Have you spoken? I said some some pretty terrible things, she did too, but I wanted to apologize."

She probably read it on his face before he said it, but John couldn't help it. He raked his growing hair out of his eyes, looking down at his toes.

"She's left." He sighed at her look, disappointed but not surprised. "House gave her a task, but she went and did her own thing, so Mr. House paid her and kicked her out."

"You didn't ask her to stay?"

"Mr. House is the lord of his castle, but I didn't get a chance anyway. I was out like a light. Sleeping pills. She left me a note." He shook his head, then leaned back in the chair. "It's better this way. She already said she wanted to go back to California."

"But -"

"Veronica, please," he tried to be stern, unwavering. It came out as a plea. "It's better this way. Really. I end up hurting everyone and everything I touch."

"You don't -" His look silenced her weak protest. It would've been wasted breath anyway. Veronica toyed with a corner of toasted bread for the next minute, pushing it around the platter. "So you work for House now?"

"Turns out I already used to before I was shot. Now he's my best chance at finding who I was, and the pay is really good. Hey, if you need some caps -"

"Well, I don't even have any clothes, but it's not about that. I was thinking that you don't seem to mind my villainous secret identity, so maybe..." He tilted his head at her, but she shrugged. "Never mind. I'm rambling again." Her eyes left his artificial arm and then she was studying him again, searching for something, some twitch or great truth. He couldn't really tell anymore. "You weren't joking about the Followers?"

"Things went to hell in a handbasket all over Freeside in the last seventy-two hours." He told her about the Van Graffs' attempt to seize power, about the NCR fighting both the Fiends and the Kings, and the crisis gripping the wider city at large as they spoke. Blackout, famine, sanitary emergency. "They'll need all the capable hands they can get. If you come in with all those supplies, they'll welcome you with open arms."

"Sounds like a bribe," she quipped, but there was no real humor behind it. "John, I'm Brotherhood. I don't agree with the way things work, but I was born into it. That doesn't really bother you at all? Not even a tiny bit?" Something familiar flickered in her eyes. For a moment, it was like looking into a mirror. "Cass made me realize I put you all in danger by traveling with you. If that NCR sniper had realized I was a scribe, the Office would have jumped to the occasion." She looked away, barely suppressing a shudder. "They - they're monsters. They don't know what mercy is."

Her deception did sting a little, but he hadn't told her about his arm either until he drove four fingers into a Van Graff skull. Like she said to him after that episode, everyone had their secrets. He had no intention of burdening her with his. He didn't want her pity. "Don't worry about it. I'm pretty sure they already had their eyes on me." _'As did House.'_ "I met one of them in Novac. A former Enclave officer," he added at her concerned look, one that pierced barricades. He avoided mentioning Boone's Morse-Code warning, though; without it, he might have taken him up on his offer to use the NCR monorail.

"Besides, you busted my ass out of the fire with Lyons and she almost killed you for it." Her hand went to the large, finger-shaped bruises swelling her throat like a gorget. "I owe you big time."

"Almost being the key," she chuckled, rubbing her throat. "And Mr. House will just let me waltz out of here? There isn't much love lost between the Brotherhood and him."

He half-expected House to butt in there with some scathing remark on hypocritical, backward-looking yokels hoarding technology, but the man-machine didn't unravel the facade of privacy they enjoyed. John didn't doubt his cameras were recording every instant and word, anyway.

"Not waltz, maybe, but yeah. One of my conditions before accepting Mr. House's job offer was that I'd get to deal with you once you'd recovered."

"That doesn't sound ominous at all."

"The point is," John persevered, "I was told what the Brotherhood did and when, but math says you're too young to have taken part in the war or the bombing of the NCR Congress." Her lips parted to form a small O, but her shaky nod was all he needed to believe her and assuage his last lingering doubts. "In any case, after what I've done, I have no right to judge you."

Veronica didn't have an answer to that and thankfully kept any questions to herself. John helped her prepare, giving her the privacy she needed as she changed out of the hospital scrubs. Then he handed her the thin exoskeleton suit and she nearly knocked it from his hands; John found himself glommed into a bear hug, but even if it made him feel kind of funny, he couldn't manage to summon a true smile.

He didn't want to lie to her, but he couldn't tell her the truth either. Mr. House did keep his word, but he also added a tracker into the suit so that, if and when she returned to her bunker, he'd know where the remnants of the Brotherhood in the Mojave were hiding.

"So what do you say, want to ride a van?"

0 * MiA * 0

 _"- this was Marylyn, Mr. House's personal assistant, with the health bulletin on Presley King. I'm your host again, Mr. New Vegas, and my heart goes to all of you who lost a loved one in these past terrible days."_

" _For all of you folks who've just tuned in, now that order has returned to the streets, Mr. House is handing out food near the Strip gates. Tell your family and friends: a citizenship card is better than starvation."_

" _In other news, everyone who wants to carry their iron around in Freeside should go to the nearest Securitron and ask for a permit; keep your hands in sight folks, there's enough blood in our streets already."_

" _And now, more music. This next song helped me through a very difficult time in my life. I hope Johnny Mercer will do the same for you."_

The notes of _Accentuate The Positive_ waxed out of a nearby radio, floating through the smoky air to find Cass in her corner. Lopez' Watering Hole served booze so watered down it'd have embarrassed Lacey at the Outpost and smelled of brahmin ass and cheap hookers, but was close enough to the Strip gates to be favored by caravaneers out of their luck.

Lopez, the owner and bartender, also paid his bouncers enough that they hadn't slit his throat when Freeside went down the toilet, and the extra peace of mind suited Cass just fine. A handful of extra caps had bought her lunch, a half-decent bottle for a midday drink, two glasses, and the same secluded corner of the day before, the one with the good vantage point on the swinging saloon doors.

The reasons why Cass had set up shop there straight out of the Strip and was still suffering the Watering Hole's household aroma for the second day in a row didn't end there. No, they were numerous and mysterious, and the crappy booze that couldn't get her drunk was or wasn't one of them, depending on the time of the day.

The black-out still had most of Freeside in its clutches, but Lopez had a small, emergency generator, paid for with the booze caps left by a hundred sore drunks like her. That meant light and running water that peeled dirt rather than her skin off, and the Creep had kicked her out of his gilded cage as soon as the robot-doctor bandaged her shoulder up. No time for goodbyes, no time for a fucking shower; after breathing Gloria's air, she had needed one, and Lopez's was the closest place to the Strip with half-decent rooms without trying King's territory and the Chapel.

The bouncers also kept out the desperados that lined up in growing numbers on Vegas Boulevard to trade their nominal independence for a box of Cram or some Instamash. With a shoulder out of commission and a few thousand caps still jingling in her backpack despite all the stuffing, she didn't fancy her chances on a long walk alone through Freeside, new order or not. A knife would kill her just as well if not twice more silently and she didn't trust the Creep's tin cans not to turn a blind eye since she disobeyed their master.

No sir. When she'd take that walk, she'd do it on her terms, and definitely not alone, if Lopez's information had any value to it and her message reached its destination. She eyed the balding bartender. With how much she paid him, it better. She'd got as far as the Old Mormon Fort that morning only because she fell in with a group of Followers and wounded, then literally left that nightmare in the making with not a single cap on her person and her working hand on her 9mm's grip.

Cass smiled around the rim of her glass despite herself. Julie Farkas' expression, the weary, professional politeness morphing into stuttering hope, had been worth the price; the doctor would know what to do with it and the Followers would put it to a better use than she ever could. It wasn't like she'd beggared herself either. It was the right choice, same as handing Arcade Gannon some fifteen hundred caps from Jason Bright's stash back in Novac, only to make up some bullshit on inflated prices for the cowboy.

Her smile soured into a frown and she threw back the two fingers of swill she'd paid for.

 _'John... Fuck. It's over, girl. That was a run doomed from the start. Better this way; he'll learn who he is and I'll find my dad. A win-win situation.'_

The alcohol didn't burn that much on the way down, but her head ached and the fine hair on her nape was slick with cold sweat. The couple syringes of Med-X she'd bought on the Strip called to her, safely tucked away with most of her remaining two-thousand caps and the Pip-Boy in her room, but she forced herself to ignore the call. Mixing chems with alcohol was always a bad idea, as she'd learned on her skin on her caravan's graves, but it was Doc McPayne's warning before she left the Lucky 38 that still bounced around in her skull.

 _"I strongly recommend you stop with the painkillers and cut back on your alcohol consumption. You have a congenital heart condition and you very nearly risked a seizure while brawling with Mr. House's guest."_

 _'When it rains, it pours.'_ She put down the glass and refrained from filling it again, turning her gaze back to the saloon door instead, willing for the man she'd been waiting for the past thirty-and-something hours to walk through them. The floating toaster hadn't offered her a chem scrub, of course, and the local fixers Lopez knew who could sell her some addictol had either dropped off the map, like Dixon, or in the Garretts' case were probably mush under the rubble of the Atomic Wrangler.

' _Farewell to that den of thieves.'_

The morbid line of thought made her grab the bottle again, but she stopped with her hand pressed against the warm glass. It wasn't like she needed any addictol, anyway. So maybe she had a problem with med-x, and maybe she drank a bit too much lately. She wasn't the Vault Dweller, but she knew the words high-functioning alcoholic, and they suited her just fine. Her dad reputedly drank more than she did and he got to his venerable age, taking names, killing mafia bosses, and being a top-tier, all-around asshole.

 _'Next up, if it ain't Tips on Mercy and Compassion with John Doe the fuckin' Butcher. Stay tuned, kiddos.'_

What was her issue? She'd left him a note and he was just mellow with Veronica being B-of-fucking-S the way she put it the other day. He'd take care of that kid, find her a job once she recovered, or just keep her around all that techie-bounty.

 _'She'll probably like that better than becomin' a baby oven.'_

Cass put her forehead on the table, searching for a good fit among the various pits and dents on the metal surface and let out a long breath. She was in pain, homeless, and stranded in a fucking warzone and she was worrying for a terrorist of all people? All the waiting must really be getting to her. And the place smelled.

"You know, Lopez," she grunted, begging for a distraction, "washin' the floor sometimes ain't gonna kill you."

The barman didn't bother with an answer. From outside came a few cries not of the alarming kind and what could have been, if she was back in the Core States and not Vegas, the revving of a fusion engine. A distant, slightly familiar _whoop_ of excitement made her look up, only to see the doors swing in. She dismissed the newcomer at a first glance and the sound tricks as well, turning to Lopez to resume the one-way discussion.

"Always nice to speak with ya. What time is it?"

"One p.m. has come and gone," the newcomer answered instead, coming up to her table and leaning over the back of the chair in front of Cass. "Waiting for someone?"

Cass narrowed her eyes at that voice. _'Where have I met ya again?'_ She leaned back, trying to see the woman's face, but between a wide-brimmed hat, darkened goggles, and a scarf, there was little to see.

"Not you, so scram."

"I thought so," she said and Cass heard the smile in her voice as she took a seat opposite. Cass didn't let the apparent lack of weapons fool her: her good hand drew the 9mm and had it leveled at her belly before her ass touched the chair.

"Last warnin'. I said shoo, table's taken."

"Don't be so antagonistic, Rose," the woman said, picking up the bottle and pouring herself one. Then she continued in a whisper, "I only have a couple questions for you and then I'll leave you in peace."

"Who the fuck -"

"The letter in Novac."

The words pulled at the strings of memory, hazy as it was from the steady pain that wouldn't leave her alone. Then her eyes widened to the point of boggling in recognition. "Ranger Garrett's little sidekick?"

"Charmed, but I'm here as the little sidekick to your father's old friend today."

Major Granite. The 9mm trembled slightly in her grasp as Cass inhaled sharply. The bitch wasn't smiling anymore under the scarf.

 _'The Office. Oh shit.'_

The Ranger-turned-Agent took a sip of her booze. "Put that gun away and keep your voice down. You never know who's listening in."

Dread tied her vocal chords together in a knot. She returned the 9mm to the holster, then poured herself two more fingers of not-whiskey. The knot loosened enough for her to clear her throat, but her thoughts were a mushy swamp of pounding headache.

"What's this about?" she finally managed to say. Over the Agent Whatshernameagain's shoulder, Lopez glanced in her direction, but Cass didn't dare meet his eyes. "What do you want?"

"You went into the Lucky 38. I'd like to know what you saw. Defenses, facilities, back entrances, how far underground the complex goes. Tell me everything."

And tell her everything Cass did, without hesitation. About the sewers access John used, about the Securitrons' armaments and stealth cloaks, about the Clinic and the suite, about Mr. Cork and the revolving lounge and how the whole casino was stocked up for a siege. She didn't leave anything out; when her throat grew hoarse, she downed another drink and kept talking.

The Chosen One was her childhood hero, thanks in no small measure to her dad's biased stories, but Veronica was not entirely wrong on how the hero became the Iron General. His second title was paid with its weight in corpses in service of the NCR: slavers, raiders, gangs, Enclave, Brotherhood. The Office he created and led shared freely into his methods; everyone knew it, and she didn't want to test the Agent too much.

Besides, she owed nothing to the Creep after how he tricked her and used her in the Van Graff business.

She drew a line, however, when the Agent placed some electronic doohickey between them, sliding it under her gloved hand as if hiding it from prying eyes. The mechanical kind, if Cass' sudden hunch was in any way correct. Lopez's Watering Hole was fertile grounds for gossip from all over the Mojave and beyond on a good day. A small hidden camera and a couple of mics, like the hundreds littering the Lucky 38, was all the Creep would need. He could be watching her at that exact moment.

"Forget it."

"You don't even know what it is."

"I know I'll have to get back in there to use it and that's a no. Got kicked out anyway." _'With a suitcase full of caps and three words thrown my way as payment.'_

The Agent leaned in, her eyes inscrutable under the large goggles. "Why?"

"I almost killed Gloria Van Graff," Cass scoffed. So what if the Head Mafioso Bitch had immunity with the NCR? House'd made it crystal clear Freeside was his playground. What happened in Vegas stayed in Vegas and the Van Graffs were already gunning for her anyway. "He's got a bunch of her cronies and the head honcho herself locked up somewhere underground. Didn't see where."

The Agent took in the information, then downed her drink in one go, grimacing behind the loops of her loose scarf. _'Not much of a drinker this one.'_

"Why?"

"You heard the tin cans. Farce trial and all that." She thought better than mentioning the Van Graffs' Legion affiliations; tempting as it was to throw that morsel, it'd raise only more questions and she didn't need the Office to set their sights on her any more than they already had; better they forget about her once House and Matriarch Tiaret started ripping out each other's throat.

"That's not what I asked." The Agent's forceful tone startled her out of her musings. "Why did you want to kill her?"

Mahpee's praying every sunset and painting his face every morning, staring in a small mirror; Garland, always so angry, putting an ear to Xin's belly with a goofy grin and the Shi girl laughing that it was way too soon to hear the little _háizi_ kick.

Cass blinked and bit her lower lip until it hurt. She thought about making up some bullshit, but the Agent wasn't the amnesiac cowboy. The gizmo was gone and her hands were nursing the empty glass, but the eyes hidden behind those darkened lenses were boring into her, demanding in pure Office fashion. All take, no give.

"She had my family murdered. An ambush. Just business."

She expected many things, mostly indifference. The Agent reached out instead and put her gloved hand over Cass' bare one. A squeeze that might have been a grab if it lasted a moment longer, then the hand retreated to her own side of the table.

"Gloria had a dear friend of mine killed too," she said, throwing Cass for a loop. "Get out of the Mojave, Rose. House hasn't had you killed yet, but don't test your luck. You're a loose end."

Cass sat alone after the Agent left, toying with her drink and mulling over those words that sounded laced with truth and something like honest concern, but sprouted doubts aplenty. Was the Agent right? Did the Creep know? If he considered her a loose end, then why give her a direction? Why pay her even if she told him where to shove his orders? Delivering a message and getting almost blown up by a rocket was worth a suitcase full of Vegas-minted caps? She didn't believe for one moment her life was worth that much to him, but if he wanted her dead, she'd have never left the Lucky 38 on her own legs and rich enough to show McLafferty the middle finger. Why leave her the Pip-Boy then? Those things were rare and expensive, especially working ones. Unless...

The Creep in the tower knew how to manipulate her, dangling her father in front of her. Maybe he also figured she'd listen to that frequency and jump to the occasion once she learned that, between the Fiends and the critters on the I-15, the monorail south to Sloan wasn't running? Could it be, or was she getting paranoid with a bit too much booze in her?

Cass groaned, rubbed her eyes, then buried her forehead into a particularly large dent in the table, one she was kinda sure Garland had created with the head of some grabby asshole who thought Xin 'exotic'. She might have dozed off, because next thing she knew, the scraping of chair legs on worn linoleum had her crack an eye open.

 _'Fuckin' finally.'_

She pushed her face off the table and cracked her neck, studying the sun-beaten man. If she was honest, it looked like the sun had shared some of those beating sessions with life lately. His hair was thinner and grayer than she remembered and if those overalls were his business suit, then the Happy Trails Caravan Company was even in worse waters than she remembered from her days on the Big Circle.

"You're late."

Jed Masterson eyed the glass left behind by the Agent with a familiar glint. "I can't just pick up 'n' leave the station at a moment's notice because you rang, Cass. I'm organizing a big expedition here."

"To New Jerusalem. I heard the message you broadcasted." She summoned up a cocky smirk. "On my own, personal Pip-Boy."

That got his undivided attention away from the half-empty bottle. Masterson was an old hand at the caravan game, though. Older than her by a decade and change. Suspicion easily came before surprise.

"No offense, Cass, but I'll want to see it before I commit to anything."

"It's up in my room. You know me, Jed. What reason do I have to lie?"

Masterson studied her, then crossed his arms and grunted. "I heard you sold to McLafferty."

Her smirk cracked like china, so she fell back on the business voice she'd spent years practicing and missing, if Garland's teasing had been onto something. "Ain't much of a choice with the block her friends in Shady have set up at the Outpost." Masterson painted the floor with a good, expressive loogie. "But yeah, Cassidy Caravans is history. And from what I hear, if this expedition doesn't pan out for you, Happy Trails won't be too long behind here in the Mojave. And the Families already kicked you out of the Circles."

He shrugged, but storm clouds gathered on his face. "Won't deny the truth. So, what's the deal?"

"You put in the name, contacts, and what you've scraped together so far. I add a working Pip-Boy and enough caps to make sure we reach Utah and New Jerusalem and actually have something to trade. No chems, fifty-fifty share on the profits. If all goes well, I'll reinvest most of it into Happy Trails anyway."

A snort of disbelief was better than an offended glower, but not by much. The four digits Cass traced on the table under his nose still served to send his eyebrows to meet his receding hairline.

"And where did you get all those caps?"

"McLafferty really wanted Cassidy Caravans," she lied. Truth be told, the two sums weren't really that far off… once she detracted what she donated to the Followers. "So, what do you say? Partners?"

His rumbling chuckle and the new light in his eyes spoke louder than words, but Jed Masterson was never one to do things small as long as Cass knew him.

His worn Caravan deck slapped onto the table. "Lopez, another bottle on me. And something that's not your own piss, for God's sake!"

"And another glass!"

Cass fished out her own cards with her good hand, trying to ignore the beating crave twisting her stomach into a painful knot and instead preparing herself for a resounding trouncing. She didn't miss Jed stealing a look or two down her cleavage, but she was glad she didn't have to string him on to get him to agree. After the past couple of weeks and her embarrassing failure at the Tops, she didn't trust herself with that side of negotiation all that much.

"To our new partnership!" he toasted.

"To a fruitful trip north!" She replied with fake cheer, remembering one too many similar toasts in a very different company. Would they hate her for it? They never held her detours chasing rumors of her father against her. Mahpee, Garland, and Xin all knew in their own way the pain of losing family. It was what brought them together in the first place, even if none of them had realized it for a long while.

And now they were dead. Because her father just had to kick that nest of poisonous snakes.

She clinked glasses with Jed and they downed it at the same time, then it was time to let cards and luck do the talking. Cass wasn't a good match, but awkwardly playing with a healing shoulder was only one side of that cap. If Jed noticed her poor performance, he was a good sport about it.

The words of her toast echoed House's dismissal, three words thrown at her like stones to a dog. Those same words brought her to the Watering Hole and Jed Masterson, and now had her with one foot already out of the Mojave.

 _'He went north.'_

0 = MiA = 0

 _Thank you for reading and Happy New Year! Don't forget to leave a_ _ **review**_ _. Let's start 2018 in style._

 _Edit 16/01/2018: PartyPat came and set this chapter straight._


	21. 19) Unconventional Pets

**Missing in Action 19) Unconventional Pets**

 _My thanks to_ _ **ScrimshawPen (x4), DmCrebel25, The Desert Dancer, PaladinBailey, Aegon Blacksteel, PartyPat22, DocMarten2525, Blazw01245, colstrent, IAmTheAble, WilSquare, Master Doom Maker, Winding Warpath**_ _for their reviews, support, and feedback. Also, Aegon? The poker scene is the one you won around last year. Probably won't be the last of that kind either. And now, a full John chapter, because it's been too long since the last one. Enjoy!_

 _Edit 18/02/18: **PartyPat22** did his magic. The English language as a whole is grateful._

* * *

Shrouded in a stealth field and perched on the Old Mormon Fort's battlements later that afternoon, John spied Veronica drive the van into the courtyard and oriented the microphone built into his Pip-Boy after her. The spunky scribe hopped down from the driver's seat and gave a cheerful wave to the assembled crowd, rapping on the Lucky 38's unmistakable logo on one of the sides. As if the four Securitrons trundling with the van down Vegas Boulevard didn't make it clear already.

"Happy drugs delivery from the big man in the tower!" The earpiece reproduced Veronica's voice and even the louder ambient sounds and voices around her. "Doctor Farkas! It's Veronica. Remember me?"

The disheveled woman with the messy mohawk looked so exhausted that she probably didn't even remember her name. Tired enough she didn't look the gift horse in the mouth, at least.

Her eyebrows took off like Vertibirds when Veronica swung the rear tailgate up. "Holy - is that a Mark IX?"

"Look – Look at all of that! I don't even - " another doctor, a blonde woman John vaguely remembered from Novac – Lu-something? - echoed in a choked whisper, yet loud enough to carry far in the sudden hush. "But - how? I mean, why?!"

Veronica's smile seemed to grow with the sheer, palpable hope that was spreading through the crowd. Her grin was dazzling, even from afar. "Mr. House sends his regards to the Followers," he heard her say, parroting what they'd agreed upon. Then she took a sharp left turn from the script, "And I think I'm some last-minute attached bonus? I mean, his aide-de-camp put me on the wheel and pointed down the street, but I'm a good tinkering hand. I can set the Auto-Doc up, and if you need any repairing done, I don't know, a generator or something –"

Her rambling was cut short by a single, ragged cheer, then two, dozens, until hundreds of voices were cheering and crying and people were pushing to try and see, or just touch her. A scarce few even had Mr. House's name on their lips. Dr. Farkas soon toppled the ragged cacophony and wrestled it to order. Like an orchestra conductor, she organized and directed teams to haul down the towering Auto-Doc with its attached generator and then the many, many crates of supplies stacked in the back of the van, Veronica always at her heels.

Height and invisibility made John feel like a ghost: surrounded by people but ultimately removed from them. Every parent holding their wounded child, every doctor or nurse on the verge of exhaustion, every burned, bandaged patient on a blanket or person missing a limb was a reminder seared into his memory. A chorus of accusations in his left ear that no amount of cheering or tears shed in joy and relief could silence.

He was a critical reason why such extensive help was necessary in the first place. Did it matter that he never wanted any of it to happen? With every second he spent watching, memorizing, the feeling grew, raged, consumed him. He wanted to vent, let it out, but Cass had left, and Veronica didn't deserve to be burdened by his failure; not when she was among people that accepted her now, ready and eager to do good.

Could he make them understand? He wanted them to know, even if it was just one of the countless people in that crowd. Selfishness checked his tongue, however; conflicting needs froze his hand on the Stealth-Boy's controls. He needed to know who he was, who he had been. With Benny dead, House wasn't his best chance. He was his last.

Putting Veronica on the wheel and avoiding the downpour of goodwill was already stretching his contract's limits. Probably. He suspected the man-machine would throw him out as he did with Cass, or worse, should he come out clean and throw a wrench in his plans.

John's finger hovered over the switch of the Stealth-Boy. What if he'd been a better man than he was now? A good man? Would that change anything about what he'd done?

The mental ' _No!'_ was a shout he couldn't vocalize. But if he knew the kind of person he'd been once, then maybe he'd have an example to follow? A line to toe, rather than keep stumbling blindly and leaving only destruction in his wake.

A _beep_ from the earpiece scattered his looping thoughts. Only ten minutes of charge left. After one last look, John descended the wall as quickly as he'd climbed up, then made himself scarce through a side alley.

' _What would Doc Mitchell have done?'_

John choked on a snort. The old man would've never gotten into this situation in the first place. He couldn't have committed such slaughter, because he didn't possess a freakish body capable of shouldering it, time and again. Fatigue and a genuine human fear for his life would've given him pause much sooner; a lifetime of heaped experience would've made him reconsider the orders earlier, rather than arrive at a belated realization once he was already swimming into a sea of blood.

 _Beep-beep_. John snuck into a gaping doorway, checked his surroundings, then switched off the Stealth-Boy. Better save the last few minutes of charge for his access to the sewers or an emergency. With no new communications from Mr. House, his legs carried him on, away from the sewer access. Street after street, cutting through gutted buildings and circling courtyards, gardens, and parking lots turned into farmland, he was but a midday ghost to the few who glanced his way.

He noticed the stalker as the urban jungle thinned, just a few hundred feet from the site of the crater.

The sniper rounded the last corner to meet Fritz's muzzle leveled at his chest. His hands went up in one smooth motion.

"Boone," John greeted. He frowned but lowered the rifle. Just an inch. Boone's hands followed. "I thought I saw you on one of the towers."

"You too." At his raised eyebrow, Boone elaborated, "Wall's old, crumbling. Kicked some dirt loose. Then I noticed the shimmer."

"Right, I should've thought about that." John's eyes followed Boone's hands. The sniper's palms were flat and splayed non-threateningly at his sides. "What are you doing here anyway? Didn't you go back to the army at McCarran?"

"I tried. Didn't pass the psych evaluation." He let out a long breath, removing his dusty shades. "I need work."

"The Followers need all the hands they can get." The line came easy after practicing it for Veronica. "You can do a lot of good there."

Boone's green eyes were light pinpricks rimmed with dark bags. "Not-at-Home will take care of their security now. Standing around isn't my kind of work. Nor yours." The muscles of his jaw tensed, keeping the words in for a few moments, then he let them out in one breath. "Can't let it all catch up with me. Not yet."

A _ping_ from the Pip-Boy into his earpiece interrupted the staring match. John glanced at the message header, then back at the sniper.

Before Novac, he'd have probably said something insensitive already; that he could sympathize with Boone's terrible loss, understand what he was going through. Cass's fist had corrected some of that arrogance, but still, quiet sympathy survived a busted nose.

The question could wait. Boone was dead on his feet; John figured a lesser man would probably be swaying, or just passing out there and then. He only hoped his choice was out of sympathy, not selfishness under a different guise.

* * *

' _King of flowers, three of hearts.'_ John raised twenty caps. Mr. House called from the tall screen. A silent Ambrogio added House's chips to the big blind with one of its prongs.

"You seem fond of collecting strays, Mr. Doe," Mr. House crooned through the speakers, his voice everywhere at once. "Have you considered the NCR's interest in you and the sensitive nature of your work for me?"

Mr. Cork, the bartender robot now doubling as the dealer, flopped the first three cards. Nine of diamonds, six of hearts, and king of spades. John raised by fifty; House topped that by fifty more. John's stack grew a little taller.

"I've already worked with Boone, sir. Both against the Khans and frannkesteins, back in Novac. He's a good man. Experienced, with a sharp eye and a steadier hand. We cover each other's blind spots. I'll pay him out of my pocket and run it by you before taking him along on an assignment. Can't handle this one alone anyway."

Mr. Cork burned a card, then dealt the fourth card. Three of spades. John's lips twitched.

"Very well. You may take your companion with you, but his silence is your responsibility." Mr. House paused a beat, letting that one sink. "Back to your task, four units will be waiting a mile west of the Junction 15 railway station, by midday tomorrow. The last reports had deathclaws in the vicinity."

John grunted, glanced up at House, and checked. "Make it three and leave me one as a pack mule, please. I'm taking some heavy ordinance from the armory."

House raised by a hundred. "Do you require another demonstration of my Securitrons' arsenal?"

"I'd rather be more self-reliant, sir. An adult deathclaw can still cut them and me to ribbons, and my nine millimeters will only tickle their hide." John patted Fritz, then re-raised by two hundred. "The word death's in their names for a reason, sir. You want me to eradicate a _nest_ of them? I'll need explosives, and your Securitrons aren't exactly the most reliable outside your transmission range."

House sighed theatrically and checked. John smirked inside. _'Gotcha.'_

"Just wrap it up sooner rather than later. My stock can only tide the slums over for so long before involving the Families will become a necessity. That's a prospect I'd prefer to avoid altogether. Once you've cleared Interstate 15, the NCR will lift the blockade at the Mojave Outpost and trade will resume in earnest, unbothered by Legion raids."

"And earn you goodwill within the NCR, sir?" John added rhetorically. Mr. Cork burned another card and revealed the fifth and last. Ten of flowers. _'Lame.'_ Focusing on the cards at least made Mr. House's priorities easier to stomach somewhat. John tapped the table twice, checking.

"I don't deal in goodwill or chances, Mr. Doe." House raised by another three hundred. "I make investments."

John grimaced. The pot could probably feed any family in Freeside for a couple years. John called. Ambrogio turned House's cards first.

Jack and queen. "King-high straight," Mr. Cork announced, pushing nine, ten, and king out of the five-card line on the table. "And you, sir?"

John flipped his cards with a sigh and tipped his stack. "Two pairs, kings and threes," Mr. Cork uttered the obvious. "Mr. House takes the pot."

"What have you learned from this round?" House asked as Mr. Cork reshuffled the deck.

John took a moment to run the game in his head. The loss of caps didn't bother him, not really; with how much Mr. House paid him, he had thousands more than he knew what to do with. Maybe he could drop some at the Followers' doorstep, an anonymous donation? Boone would need something better than the clothes on his back too. It looked like the army kept his armor when they turned him down.

"Never celebrate too soon? Still, if it wasn't for that last card –"

House scoffed. "Typical. You'd have lost anyway and not due to an unlucky draw." John looked up, meeting Mr. House's pixel eyes and ignoring the new hand. "That twitch of your lips. You betrayed your hand when the three of spades turned up; that was plenty of time to adjust my tactics. The lesson you should take from this is that we're often the architects of our downfall and always due to overlooking some minor detail or variable."

John drummed his fingers on his cards. Was House referring to his decision to hire Boone? Or had he guessed he was about to ask him about Cass, where she was? John swallowed that question, picking his next few words carefully as he set down the big blind for the next round.

"I've got a feeling this has to do with Black Mountain and the frankensteins there?"

Mr. House hummed approvingly. "I had a half-brother. A man of low cunning, utterly unimaginative in anything but his burning envy. When he realized I'd become the man he could only dream he was, he sold himself over to my rivals. The night before the missiles launched, he tried to sabotage a few critical systems, including my specialized, long-range communication system. Boorish spite and yet, he wasn't altogether unsuccessful. The equipment was irreplaceable on such short notice, and I still cannot replicate it with my limited means. As soon as you vacate the super mutants, the satellite arrays on Black Mountain will do as a replacement."

Cards forgotten, John leaned back in the chair, lips pursed. "I'll never say no to mopping up frankensteins, sir, but why now? Aren't the Fiends in South Vegas a bigger threat to the people and trade? Black Mountain's a ways off from I-15; by this Tabitha's spiel, they seem content to remain there for the time being. Let'em rot up there for a little while longer, I'd say."

"But I'm not content to let them; indeed, this has gone on too long already. Black Mountain will extend my transmission range. My reach won't be limited to Vegas' metropolitan area anymore; incidents like Victor's in Goodsprings can't and won't happen again."

John had to nod at that, biting his cheek. If Victor hadn't gone rogue due to Benny's little hacking attempt, if House had had the range to control it directly at such a distance, things would have gone much differently in Goodsprings.

"As for the Fiends, leave the browbeating to the NCR for now. We only have to profit from the conflict. Let them exhaust their forces in a pointless struggle: it'll make Ambassador Crocker and that peacock Oliver more receptive to my terms. With the Van Graffs removed from the equation, the Fiends have lost their main supplier. I assure you: their time will come."

* * *

Boone's head snapped up. A tiny frown creased his brow as John joined him in the abandoned Veterans Village compound a little way off Freeside's east gate. Outside, beyond the city's outline, dawn gave way to early morning.

' _Maybe it's the full kit,'_ John considered as he scratched the itch behind his left ear for what felt like the hundredth time that morning. Or maybe it was the faint but pungent smell from his after-breakfast trek through the sewers to reach the meeting place unseen.

"Expecting trouble?" the sniper asked, nodding at the hefty M60-something strapped across John's chest and the couple of ammo belts he carried.

"Always. Here, catch."

Boone's eyebrows arched in what John hoped was appreciation as he perused the contents of the large pack. Anything short of T-51 power armor was only an encumbrance against deathclaws, but the extra kit John had assembled from House's armory would serve the sniper well against the frankensteins, or pretty much anything else. Boone hefted up the riot armor chest-piece, turning it this way and that to check the Kevlar and ceramic plates. It wasn't long before he'd neatly arranged the entire set, the extra AP ammo for his rifle, and enough supplies for a week in the field before him.

"What are we up against?" Boone asked as he went through every single mag.

"Search and destroy. Likely timespan is two, three days. Ideally, less. Deathclaw-hunting down I-15 with a side serving of super mutants on Black Mountain." John's lips curled back in a snarl. "The rest of Davison's clique, from the sound of things. Don't worry; we'll have more support on-site." He patted the machine gun. "This is for unpleasant encounters on the way to the rendezvous point and a bit of an extra punch."

"You're serious." Boone pinched the bridge of his nose. "Quantify support. Deathclaws take a lot of gun."

"Heavy." John studied the sniper as the man brooded, still as a statue. Some color had returned to his face, but his body was still one mess of taut lines, his jaw almost ready to snap. He didn't look like someone who'd enjoyed a full night of sleep, but at least it didn't seem like he'd keel over any moment either. It'd do.

At last, the sniper offered a single nod. Before he trusted Boone with his back again, however, John needed an answer.

He stepped up to knife range as the other man started donning the armor.

"What was the warning for, back at Aerotech? Why the Morse code?"

"Picked up a tail." Boone's hands paused on a strap. "Major Granite wanted you at McCarran; ordered me to take you there. He didn't tell me why. I didn't ask."

"You disobeyed an order from a superior officer?"

"I was retired. Still am, and the Major's stuck in the last war. Sees enemies and plots in every shadow." Boone shrugged. "I figured I still owed you."

"The info on Benny made us even."

"Not enough," Boone sentenced, jerking the last strap into place. "Doesn't matter. It's in the past. It happened. Nobody can change it."

Again, John couldn't shake the feeling he was missing something; just a few days in Mr. House's employ and that was already becoming a frequent recurrence, as familiar as breathing.

"I want to trust you, Boone," was what he said instead. Two fingers made a beckoning gesture; a single tire track advanced around a corner, kicking up a thin cloud of dirt as it rolled closer. Boone went for the draw, but John shook his head. A _hiss_ , then a _crack_ of burning ozone; the pack-mule Securitron appeared, encumbered by the rest of John's arsenal for the excursion.

He gave the sniper a few moments to let the implications sink in. "You work for me, but I work for Mr. House."

"Yesterday's delivery made that clear."

"Anything you hear or see remains confidential unless I say otherwise. I'll pay you for the trouble. If that's a problem, speak now."

He half-expected something patriotic along the lines of _"Keep me out of anything that'll cross the NCR"_. From how the muscles in Boone's jaw tensed and worked, the words weren't relegated to his imagination only either. Slowly and stiffly, Boone coerced his own body to stand almost at attention. The heavy frown lifted into a dark furrow, unlocking his jaw. He let out a sharp exhale.

"Your caps, your call."

John wanted to believe the mercenary attitude was genuine. "Alright then. Saddle up, daylight's a-wasting."

* * *

They made good time on the way south, retracing much of the same path they'd followed just a week before, but at a much brisker pace. Trails of smoke and distant echoes of gunfire continued to rise all morning from South Vegas' ruins, to the south-west. After three days, Mr. House's reports had it that the Fiends' offensive splintered into a dozen different skirmishes, all trying to push the NCR across Interstate 15 by throwing bodies at them.

Maybe the news of Gloria's fall from glory still had to reach them? _'Or maybe Motor-Runner doesn't want to lose face with that bunch of fried-brains, and his head along with it. Might as well go whole hog.'_

Marching side by side, John often spied Boone's eyes flitting to the ruins; he figured Boone was screaming inside, fighting the urge to ditch him and make a beeline for the new frontline. John could respect that and yet was glad for the sniper's presence, even if he wasn't much for conversation. As the sun rose higher and started to roast them slowly despite the late season, John almost wished Mr. House had switched the tasks around, just to give the sniper a little bit of peace of mind.

He dismissed the thought soon after. Boone was just one man, and the NCR wasn't defenseless; Freeside was home to hundreds, thousands, and many would depend on the caravans and the railway line for food and meds, if not water. The priority was clear.

The sun began its descent to an early autumn sunset as they skirted around the few, spread out farmsteads and fences around Junction 15 station. The area looked half-deserted, with only a few people out and about, tilling the land and feeding cattle; an NCR flag hung limply from a pole beside the station, but from almost a mile away, John couldn't tell how many soldiers were garrisoning it, if any.

The other three Securitrons awaited where the flatland started to give way to the rocky foothills, a couple of miles north of the limestone quarry the eye-witnesses said the deathclaws had turned into their home. If he squinted, John imagined he could see the top of Goodspring's graveyard hill far in the distance, several miles to the south-west. He let out a long breath, then directed his mind back to the matter at hand.

"Anything to report?" he asked the picket of Securitrons.

"Mr. House ordered these units to wait for your arrival here, citizen Doe. These units waited."

"Okay. Good. Any sighting? Any movement from the quarry? Black Mountain?"

"Both lie beyond sensors' range, citizen. These units' orders were to wait."

"And you waited. Yes, yes. I get it." John looked up at the sky, then at his Pip-Boy. They had maybe two and a half hours before sunset, but it wouldn't do to get caught at nighttime around the nest, not when the whole area was supposed to be swarming with the critters. The good old U.S. of A had designed deathclaws as terror weapons and man-hunters in a time of global warfare; the cover of dark was just another advantage they were imprinted to exploit.

He paused, blinked, then filed the information with the other tidbits coming back to him piecemeal. After guzzling down some water, he handed a grenade launcher from the pack-mule Securitron to Boone.

"We're reconnoitering the nest, right now."

It was a long trek through treacherous terrain that led men and machines to the upper edge of the limestone quarry. The drab landscape lent itself to camouflage, marked by deep crevices, low hills, and rock formations that could hide a silent stalker in ambush. John felt exposed every step of the way as the sun inched lower; he kept his eyes roaming all the time, expecting a mutant lizard to jump out from behind every other rock.

Interstate-15 ran parallel to their path at times, compressed between rocky formations. Dry blood was splashed in great fans here and there; it decorated upturned carts and car skeletons, the odd busted crate or loose item that rolled away in the panic. Spent cartridges and shells glinted softly in the afternoon light. No body, limb, or bleached bone baked in the sun, however; dragging marks of flaking black cut lines across the tarmac, disappearing into the rocky hills.

More blood smeared the rocks around him in irregular patterns; it was faint, mostly covered by the windblown dirt. All of it was black and crumbling, weeks old at least. All led, inexorably, to the quarry.

Boone selected a sniping perch on the ridge, upwind and with the setting sun on their backs. John set down the M60 on the bipod and unloaded some extra ammo from the pack-mule, leaving the Securitrons just out of sight but ready to intervene and rain death on the quarry below.

At a single glance, John could tell Boone had picked a prime spot. The quarry opened up beneath them like a gaping wound in the hills, all concentric terraces and conveyor belts, still and unmoving. Several trucks and backhoes lay unmanned here and there, frozen and empty where the miners abandoned them weeks before, to flee from the deathclaws.

John wiped the sweat away from his brow and glued his eyes to his binoculars.

' _Where are they?'_

"Look," Boone said seconds later. "Lower ring, two o'clock. Near the cave."

Shadows were growing longer across the quarry. It took John a moment to parse what exactly he was seeing. Blast marks blackened that whole stretch of the quarry. Amidst all that were deathclaw corpses, huge and smaller, desiccated and shriveled up where they weren't just yellowed bones cracked open by vultures to find the marrow inside.

The eye of that storm, long blown past, was a massive carcass; the dark scales, the backward curve of the remaining horn, and the sheer size could only belong to a nest mother. More lay around her, their broken forms arranged almost in a protective circle.

"Blew them to high heaven," John drawled. His mind was running. Who had that kind of firepower to throw around? He discarded bounty hunters and mercenaries in the same breath: they worked for a profit and hunting deathclaws was risky, expensive business. Nobody had turned in the heads for a reward. Who then?

The Fiends? ' _Would they even care?_ '

The Legion?

John scowled. If someone benefitted the most from cutting Vegas's supply lines after Mr. House, it was them; killing the deathclaws was counter-productive. If anything, he could see them driving a pack from the Divide into the quarry in the first place.

The scowl curled into a frown. The remains were weeks old, at least, but both the NCR and Mr. House still believed the deathclaws were up and about. Mr. House's latest reports spoke of sightings less than six days old. Maybe a few had survived and been roaming? Why hadn't they met any so far, then?

"They didn't go down easy." Boone's words dragged him out of his spiraling thoughts. John blinked sweat away from his eyes. "Ten o'clock, near the hoist."

At first, he saw only heaped rocks and rubble; then, he noticed how they were arranged. One, three, seven, oblong lines tightly packed in a somewhat secluded corner. Even without crosses or markers, graves were graves.

"We're missing something here," John said as he climbed to his feet, lifting the M60. "I'm taking a closer look."

Boone unglued his eye from the scope for the first time in minutes. "It'll be dark soon."

' _Says the guy with shades.'_ "We're already here. It'll take longer to trek back." He produced a small bottle of pills from a pocket and lobbed it at the sniper. "Cateye. Only two pills at a time. It's not addictive, but for a few moments your retinas will burn like staring at the sun."

"I know," Boone said, checking the label. "Standard procedure for night recons. You're using another Stealth-Boy?"

John answered by linking the sleek device to his Pip-Boy, then felt Boone's frown. The sniper's shades were poking out of a pocket, at last.

"That's the idea. Why?"

Boone was silent for a beat, sunken eyes searching, then, "How many have you burned through already?"

"A few." John shrugged. "I'll leave the schizophrenia to the nightkins, thank you very much."

"Not that. Paranoia. Addiction. Worse than most drugs." Another pause. The muscles in Boone's jaw were working up a storm. "I saw it happen, once. Keep it up, and it won't be your call."

"Duly noted and ignored. I know what I'm doing and when to say enough. Just stay on overwatch."

* * *

Night had well and truly fallen by the time John found a path down to the bottom of the quarry. His world switched between a familiar green hue and the blues of thermal vision, but neither evidenced any life signs. The vehicle's engines were dead cold. The only yellow and red blotch was his right forearm and fingers as he advanced, Fritz leveled.

The Stealth-Boy, however, remained switched off. That gave Boone a visual on him, but visibility made him prey on the turf of predators. The three cloaked Securitrons followed in formation around him, but if not for the telling crunch of trundling tires on gravel, he couldn't even begin to tell where they were.

He didn't like it, the exposure, but Boone probably had a point, even if John didn't want to admit it out loud. He felt weird and funny without the stealth-field. His finger brushed up and down the trigger and his skin prickled in the still night air. The hair on the back of his head stood to attention every odd minute during the descent; after a while, he'd have sworn Boone was peering at him down the scope. Sometimes, it was just a passing moment. Other times, the sensation lingered, summoning second and third thoughts. Paranoid thoughts.

John banished them as nerves and paranoia. Anyone would be nervous walking into a deathclaw nest, wiped out or not. He just had to stay focused, keep his mind on the right track. The pack-mule wasn't only up on the ridge with the sniper as artillery support.

He picked a cautious approach, searching for heat marks, then circled towards the graves, sending two Securitrons down in the other direction, to join up again at the mouth of the cave. The stench of decomposition was eye-watering, the reptilian corpses thoroughly baked, maggot-ridden, and rotten by weeks in the sun.

Up close, however, more signs of a two-sided battle jumped out at him. Here, the imprint of a body in the side of a truck, metal crumpled on impact, punctuated by dribbles of dried blood and claw marks rending the thick metal; there, the head of a super-sledge, covered in dirt and gore. The whole area, well beyond the blast marks, looked like a stampede had gone to town, even after weeks of erosion.

He ignored the pull of curiosity and skulked past the graves, signaling above his head to the mouth of the cave. He switched Fritz for the M60, checking that the belt wasn't jammed in the feeder and rolling his shoulder to loosen up taught muscles, then turned in the general direction of the Securitrons.

"Lights on."

Boone was already locked and ready to depart when John found him on the ridge again. A few miles behind the sniper's head, Black Mountain's tallest crest was like the edge of a serrated knife in the sharp greens of night-vision, the top of the satellite dish a silent promise of mayhem.

"It's the frankensteins. Can you believe it? They buried their dead." He hacked and spat some of the desert dirt clogging his throat.

"Frankensteins?"

"Super mutants." John shook his head. "There's seven of them buried down there. Well, what remains of them. The nest's abandoned. No trace of the younglings, just bones, leftovers, and smashed eggs. Everything's a few weeks old, far as I can tell."

Boone pinched the bridge of his nose, his face to Black Mountain. "Did House say how many there are up there?" John shrugged. "Muties with explosives are bad news; chances are they'll outnumber us. Again."

"Explosives are always bad news, man," John said, trying to swallow the shaking note creeping into his voice. _'Not now. Mission first. Keep moving. Keep fighting.'_ "It's all a matter of who lights the fuse first, and where. We have the Securitrons: not the sharpest bunch on their own, but they're fast, they sneak, and they pack quite the punch. Not to mention, my extra load."

"The muties killed the entire pack and lost _only_ seven." Boone crossed his arms. "You're taking this too lightly."

"I'm stating facts. It's seven less for us to kill, plus how many wounded. This won't be like at REPCONN: we'll scout the area and make them come to us, not the other way around." He brought up the satellite view of Black Mountain on his Pip-Boy. A flip of a knob and a close-up of the area at the base of the satellite dish filled the screen. His annotations, vectors, and overlapping lanes of fire were scrawled everywhere, a scanned copy of the original plans hashed out at the Lucky 38.

Boone rubbed his chin. His eyes narrowed at him, at the pack-mule, then in Black Mountain's direction.

"I see. A crossfire."

"And lots of explosives." He offered Boone a tight nod and patted the sling strapped to the pack-mule. "Let's go say hello."

* * *

They agreed that darkness was a scout's best ally. With the risk of deathclaw ambushes drastically reduced after the findings in the quarry and the night still young, Boone suggested they get started immediately. John was of the same mind: the earlier the blockade was resolved, the earlier trade would resume and the monorail reopen, taking food and water north and blunting the famine.

He didn't delude himself about the nature of Mr. House's interest in Freeside, nor how far stubbornness and old resentment could take people. Some'd rather break and starve than bend.

Climbing Black Mountain was slow-going, methodical business. A road snaked up the mesa, a narrow strip of tarmac servicing the satellite array. A roadblock cut across it from side to side not two hundred feet in, but either the nightkins all remained under Stealth-Boy constantly, or none actually manned it. After over half an hour of observation with not a ripple in the air – thermal vision remained useless against stealth fields - John concluded the latter. Invisible sentinels around a very visible, artificial barricade would make little sense anyway, though he didn't even want to try and think like a mutant would.

Still, Davison had been on a wild goose chase for more Stealth Boys at Repconn. Chances were supplies weren't at an all time high. Maybe.

Boone bypassed the issue by pointing out the start of a hiking trail a little ways north, just beyond a rickety visitor center. The Securitrons' sensors and the ensuing sweep of the building revealed that the place had seen some recent activity. Drag marks and encrusted blood led them to the cold remains of a campfire and a meaty meal.

The deathclaw was a young and lean male, taller than John was. It was also tossed into a corner and missing its head, as well as some choice cuts. The whole room reeked of decomposition.

"A single cut," John said after examining the clean edges of the wound. "Lopped the head clean off, but no burn marks. It wasn't a laser."

"Shit. A blade?" Boone asked after a long beat.

"Probably. Pretty large and heavy thing I'd say, but damn sharp. Maybe some kind of ax." John shook his head, but his hand was tight on his knife's handle. Likely less than a toothpick compared to the monster thing that beheaded the deathclaw. "Put one from a few hundred yards into the brain of whatever wields it, and it won't be a problem."

That was the last either of them spoke for a while. A cold desert wind picked up as they began the ascent, numbing John's cheeks and cracking his lips. Hand signals replaced words seamlessly, a language more comfortable to Boone than words and one John found himself dusting off more and more rather than picking up. Rusted signs half buried in the dirt, the Securitrons' sensors, and John's Pip-Boy guided them up the winding hiking trails, often barely wide enough abreast for a single robot and steeper by the minute.

They coasted around and above the main road, careful not to kick up dust or give away their position to anything that might be watching. Twice, they had to backtrack and find a different route when old rockslides or plain erosion blocked their path. At various turns, John spied two more roadblocks; without exception, all remained deserted.

One hour turned into two, then four. The satellite dishes and radio towers loomed above his head, challenging even the Lucky 38 in magnitude.

* * *

Working on Mr. House's information and his stint at REPCONN, John had made a mental checklist. Arsenal, tactics, ambush sites, the works. After the discovery in the quarry, a lot of it flew straight into the dumpster. He adjusted what he could on the fly during the march from the quarry and ascending the mountain; at the end of it, he liked his odds better this way. Nothing better than enemies taking each other out.

It was another of Mr. House's lessons, bestowed upon him while being trounced at poker: running scenarios in his head upped his reaction times and adaptability. More importantly, it gave him a palpable margin of security that maybe this time around he wouldn't screw up royally, somehow. In any case, not much could be worse than rushing in wearing the metaphorical horse blinders.

That modus operandi showed its fallacy time and again; ever since Nipton, John had promised himself to turn it around. Repconn, Vault 11, the whole Benny business. Every time, another bust.

After the poor thinking that led to blowing up the Silver Rush and leveling half the district around it, this time he'd make it right by his word. Mental preparation would help, he'd figured.

A stand-off between super mutants inside a bomb crater littered with bones didn't count among his predictions, somehow. The two deathclaw younglings nibbling at the shredded legs of the man's body that hung by chains into the crater from a toppled pylon, even less. The reptiles cracked bones underfoot, competing for the tastiest morsels left.

' _Hope he died before they started eating him.'_ Then he recognized the fashion of sports gear in the green hues of night-vision and swallowed the pity. At his side on the crest dominating the wrecked town and the bomb crater, Boone grunted.

"Not a war crime if it's Legion," the sniper said after gulping down some rad-x. The wind beating in their faces and hiding their scent from the deathclaws lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

"Yeah. What's one of them doing up here anyway, with all the radiation?"

"Scout, maybe." Boone adjusted his scope. "Things're getting heated."

"You can say 'I told you so' if you want."

The sound Boone made was the epitome of non-committal, but it still made John purse his lips. Dozens of super mutants crowded the edge of the bomb crater and the few natural platforms inside it, little more than ledges of compacted rubble. The Securitrons' latest count _beeped_ on the Pip-Boy's screen, silencing the constant ticking of the Geiger counter in his earpiece. A whooping forty-nine, but there were a few suspicious gaps in the ranks that probably meant nightkins and Stealth-Boys. The good news didn't end there, either.

Even with his world bathed in green hues, it was hard to miss the two different populations of frankensteins mingling and hanging on every word and gesture of the two mutants in the middle of the crater. The vast majority were a dark green and covered in patchwork metal armor and gutted tires; the slightly taller nightkins, those visible and unhappy about it, favored minimal clothing, much like Davison's had.

Some were wounded. Scratch that, there wasn't a single one, color notwithstanding, that didn't sport a personal collection of scars and wounds. Some looked more recent than others, long and angry and still mending. Others missed an arm, a hand, or some portion of their face, adding new depths to the word _ugly_. Some were a collage of the above and much more. One of the green ones, going around bare-chested, was just a canopy of thick scar tissue from the chin down.

There was still enough firepower down there to rival the Iron Guard, John figured, grimacing. For every sledge, rebar club or spiked board, there was a minigun, a missile launcher, a flamethrower, or some juiced up LMG, and enough grenades alone to blast a battalion to pieces. Dangerous, but a nice bonus to his plan. The explosion blast would be enough, especially with the frankensteins all packed together. Then it'd be mop-up time.

' _Time for an upgrade.'_

Taking care to keep out of sight, he untied the Fat-Man from the pack-mule, then sent a radio command to the Securitrons. _Fire only on my order._ He'd sent the other three to circle the frankenstein parliament and cut off their retreat to the radio compound proper, up the last stretch of road to the far left of his position. Four _pings_ answered on his Pip-Boy not a moment too late.

"Anything new?" he asked Boone when he crawled back to the vantage point, dragging the sling and one, precious mini-nuke. The sniper eyed the pocket nuclear device, then tilted his head.

"Can you listen in on what they're saying?"

John loaded the nuke into the launcher. "Why?"

"Green one keeps pointing at the body."

John picked the binoculars again, sticking them against his night-visor. The green mutie was on the far side of the crater, partially hidden behind its ridiculous interlocutor and the swaying body. The air on John's neck prickled: while the nightkin with a wig and – _'are those shades heart-shaped?'_ – flailed its arms around and paced, kicking up bones, Greenie stood still and smoked an honest-to-God cigar, clad from the neck down in a full set of stripped T-51 power-armor plates. When it turned around to address another mutie on the ledge above, the slab of metal on its back made John pause.

"Ten caps says that one's the executioner."

And sure enough, Greenie jabbed a finger at the dangling legionary a moment later.

John oriented his Pip-Boy in the parliament's direction. An input later, words began to pour from the earpiece, gravelly and low.

" _Do you want to be a slave, Tabitha?"_

The nightkin with the wig stomped on the ground, pulverizing a spine. Fragments and vertebrae flew as high up as the crater's edge.

" _The two-headed bears fear the dreaded battle-cattle, but the battle-cattle fears and respects Utobitha! Squishy, puny humans are no match for the Master's elites!"_

A roar went up from the mutants.

" _Have you forgotten why we left the NCR?"_ The roar faltered. Greenie advanced. _"You've broadcasted your position to every radio in the Mojave. For months. By now, the General will know there're super mutants up here. This alliance with the Legion is the best excuse he could ask for."_

"Oh shit."

"What?"

John shook his head. Greenie wasn't done, _"What you do in the wasteland affects all mutants, but you didn't think about it, did you? You just wanted to usurp the Unity. Become the new Master."_

" _Lies!"_ Tabitha erupted, a single voice in the silence. Nudging, elbowing, and shoving had silenced all but the most persistent among the green mutants. The shouting did the rest. _"All lies!"_ Her voice shifted to a cleaner pitch, chewed gravel replaced by a rapid, cultured growl. _"_ _Best Friend Tabitha hasn't forgotten the Master's kind, invasive voice. Best Friend Tabitha awaits the Master's return. Utobitha follows the Unity! He promised he'd come back. The Master doesn't lie!_ _"_

"Doe. What's going on?"

"I'm not sure. The nightkin's out of its mind. Multiple personalities, or something like that. Worse than Davison." John dropped the binoculars and reached out for the Fat-Man. "And apparently a faction's allied with the Legion."

Boone paused. "The bones." He cursed. "Explains the missing caravans the past few weeks. Not deathclaws. Muties."

John nodded, then frowned as his hand touched only dirt. _'Where's the Fat Man gone?'_

Boone cursed under his breath. Another round of shouts went up from the parliament. It almost muffled the crash of metal on metal and the warble of dying electronics. Almost.

John's nostrils flared with the smell of ozone. He spun, or tried to. A weight pinned him to the ground, stealing his breath; the muzzle against the back of his head made him freeze.

"Don't try it, human," another gravelly voice snapped somewhere above and behind him. "Don't. Marcus says we don't kill humans anymore unless they attack first, but he doesn't need to know. Just two more corpses lost in the wastes." The voice grew closer. Spittle hit the back of John's head. "Keep quiet and very still, or I'll rip your spine out. Through your chest."

Panic flared, but hate and disgust smothered it in the crib. _'Stupid idiot'_ came only a moment before _'They don't know about the three other Securitrons'_. Beside him, flat on his belly, Boone stared ahead, hands at his nape. His eyes were closed, his lips moving with silent words. _'Is he praying?'_

"Who are you?" John hissed.

"Quiet," the voice said. Or was it another? There were at least three sets of footsteps behind him. Maybe more. _'And they all snuck up on us, pretty as you like. Low on Stealth-Boys. As if.'_ "No questions. No staring. I'm trying very hard to be civil here." The muzzle nudged him. "Keep listening. Maybe you'll learn something."

John gritted his teeth so hard it hurt, crunching fistfuls of dirt in his hands. Maybe he could recall the other Securitrons through his Pip-Boy? Maybe. _'Cocky fucking idiot. So much for planning and first contact with the enemy. Idiot.'_ Around the crater, the racket had subsided enough again to make out Greenie's voice.

" _Why else settle here?"_

" _Utobitha has everything a super mutant wants! Food, isolation, the warm glow of radiation!"_

" _You're trying to replace the Master's voice with a radio broadcast. Don't deny, Tabitha."_ Greenie took another step, offering a hand. The deathclaws stopped eating, hunched and tensing. _"Come back to Jacobstown. We have a cure for the schizophrenia. It works. You can ask Keene."_

Something snorted somewhere behind John. "She's hopeless. Can't believe she's trained two deathclaw pups to replace her robot. In her condition, that's a fear."

"I can't believe some human tricked her into raiding caravans for the Legion," another said. "Anyone who leaves a pawn up here doesn't care much for their lives. Good Man, ha!"

"Humans," the one above John said and the weight on his back increased for a moment. More voices grunted and hummed in agreement. "Doesn't matter. We were all hopeless. She deserves a chance. Same as everyone else."

"The brothers that died to capture her pet lizards won't get it," the one pinning Boone spat. The sniper grunted as the nightkin shifted its weight.

"Enough," the nightkin pinning John said, silencing the others. "It's starting."

Tabitha stopped pacing, its wig askew atop its head. The mic failed to pick up its grumblings, but the next shout was loud enough through the earpiece, it left John's ear ringing.

" _There's nothing wrong with the nightkin! Even the horn-lizards recognize nightkin as superior. Tell him, Rhonda! Tell him!"_ Tabitha grabbed one of the deathclaws by its scruff and held the writhing creature before her like a puppy. _"_ _Supreme Commander Mama Tabitha is so smart and audacious. She keeps us fed here. Without Supreme Commander Mama Tabitha, we'd rut in the dirt like the inferior creatures we are!_ _"_

" _Then where's Davison? Where's Kurt? Drew? Char? Daggarth? Dog?"_ Greenie threw every name like a punch. _"I don't see them here. Are they buried in the quarry? Lost on some fool's errand? How many more, Tabitha? Come back to Jacobstown. We cannot reproduce. Every life is irreplaceable!"_

Silence. A mutant shouted his approval, fist in the air. Then another. And another. Within moments, the chant of _'Marcus! Marcus!'_ grew until Black Mountain itself seemed to shake with it.

" _Dumb!_ _Stupid Marcus!_ _Kill him, Rhonda! Kill him!"_

Meal forgotten, one deathclaw charged, aiming low; the other galloped halfway up the slope, circling Greenie's side, and leaped. On the lookout, John's eyes widened.

Greenie stepped into the charge and opened the deathclaw from hip to forehead with an upswing. The mutie torqued with momentum, kicking up dust and spinning the blade above its head. It bit into the second deathclaw's side mid-flight as the first staggered back; the leaping reptile went crashing, screeching in an eruption of blood as Greenie's blade continued. Momentum carried the super mutant, spinning faster, weapon closer to its chest. It struck the first deathclaw again as it hit full circle, lopping an arm off and carving into its torso from side to side.

The mutie planted a foot and shoved, freeing the blade. The nearly bisected deathclaw crumpled with a wheezing rattle that sent blood spurting out of its chest.

' _Jesus Christ.'_ John swallowed and blinked. Greenie's handiwork stayed.

' _No. Not Greenie. Marcus.'_

Tabitha was on the shorter mutant without a moment of respite, lungs emptying in a blood-curdling scream. Super-sledge crashed against blade, like two meteors colliding. Marcus stepped back, then pushed and slammed the pommel into Tabitha's face. Distance closed, Marcus dropped its weapon and grabbed the handle of Tabitha's. A tug-of-war ensued; fists, knees, and headbutts flew in both directions. Bone-white and yellow ash billowed around the fighters in clouds. Tabitha's heart-shaped shades shattered, but its blows hit metal. Marcus's smacked flesh.

The sledge went flying. Tabitha dove for the sword, but the other mutant drove its face into the ground instead. The nightkin howled, pawing at the bone shards piercing its eyes. Meaty arms wrapped around its neck into a chokehold, cutting the howl down to gasps. Tabitha's struggles weakened. Then, silence.

The nightkin holding John at gunpoint sighed. "About time. I told him words were pointless."

" _Gather your things,"_ Marcus said, addressing the silent parliament, _"we're leaving for Jacobstown. Now. Neil, fetch some chains to bind Tabitha and stop the bleeding."_

" _Marcus take her wid us?"_ one of the green mutants growled from the edge of the crater.

" _No one left behind,"_ Marcus said, and that was it.

John's blood went cold when some of the visible nightkins trudged back to the radio compound, but the Securitrons didn't open fire, still waiting for John's signal. In less than fifteen minutes, they'd returned, carrying supplies and a limp Mr. Handy; chains packaged the unconscious Tabitha, and the muties were ready to depart. By then, John was losing feeling to his legs and the biting cold of the desert night had seeped into his bones. Boone was still beside him, blinking slowly. His breath came out in steady puffs.

John watched them disappear down the main road and sighed internally, coals burning in the pit of his stomach.

"Get going," the nightkin leader said. Boone exhaled. John's confusion and to his shame, hope, lasted only a moment. "Better deal with the centaurs before someone remembers they exist." The weight didn't lift from his back, but the muzzle left his nape. "Nice rifle, human. I think I'll take that too as a souvenir."

' _Not Fritz. Not again.'_

The weight lifted from John's back and his brain shut down. The artificial hand darted up and closed around the muzzle, bending the metal even as he twisted on himself and brought Fritz to bear one-handed on his attacker. A meaty hand engulfed the rifle's other end as he squeezed the trigger; laser fire lanced straight through violet flesh, but the nightkin leader didn't let go or cry. The familiar stench filled John's nostrils, yet he didn't fire again. He'd miss anyway. None of the other nightkins around the downed Securitron nor the one pinning Boone opened fire. One of them was shouldering the Fat Man.

John and the nightkin held on the other's weapon. The mutant's raw strength, ready to explode and overwhelm him, traveled through Fritz to shake John's flesh arm. They studied each other for a moment, then the nightkin smiled, all gums, saliva, and blocky teeth.

"You've got guts, human. Brave, or very stupid. What's your name?"

John put all the hate he could muster in every syllable. "John. Doe."

"I'm Keene, John. Doe. You can keep your toy. It's too small anyway." The nightkin let go of Fritz. For a moment, John contemplated blasting its head off. The other nightkin aiming their guns at Boone and him stayed his hand.

"Not that stupid, then," Keene said. "Don't try and follow us. We'll know if you do."

* * *

Inside the broadcast building, the Geiger counter's ticking barely faded. Munching on more rad-x, John planted the remote signal transmitter and linked his Pip-Boy to the main broadcast control board. He selected the new frequency popping on the screen, then activated the physical commands on the console. A long minute passed as the smaller dish atop the broadcast building realigned towards the Lucky 38.

On the tv screen of the Securitron that followed him upstairs, the grizzled soldier's face flickered. Mr. House's appeared.

"You lost only a unit. All things considered, it's the result that counts. Well done, Mr. Doe."

"Black Mountain's yours, sir." And yet, success tasted like ashes in his mouth.


	22. Interlude 3: Heart, Wits, and Soul

**Interlude #3: Heart, Wits, and Soul**

 _AN: My thanks to_ _ **The Desert Dancer, ScrimshawPen, DmCrebel25, DocMarten2525, Paladin Bailey, Aegon Blacksteel, PartyPat22**_ _for their reviews, critiques, and feedback._

 _I'm told there were issues with update notifications when I uploaded the last chapter, so if you're wondering how Boone and John ended up at Black Mountain, check the last chapter. Anyway, it's been a while since the last Interlude. Enjoy!_ _  
_

 _P.S. Apologies if I botched the economics towards the end. Research can only go so far without proper studying._

0 = MiA = 0

A close call. Closer. Almost, and again, not quite there. Boone didn't know what to think when the muties left. Maybe a bullet to the head, as a pawn of a pawn to someone else's game, was all that was left to him in life. Quick. Ironic, even. The prospect left only a sour taste in his mouth.

If he were honest, he'd prefer his death to have some meaning. Any. Give somebody else a chance, spare another the burden. A good end. Or just not a pointless one for House's benefit.

Black Mountain's summit was another irradiated cesspit; even Doe was in a hurry to leave it after he completed his business. Boone sighed in relief when the Geiger stopped ticking, then took a piss and a long drink. Rad-X, can't live with it, can't live without it. They camped in one of the abandoned guard shacks along the main road. The Securitrons kept watch all night, but heavy gunfire somewhere in the mesa and later its echoes kept Boone awake even when Doe eventually turned in.

At some point, however, he must have dozed off, because dawn was licking his face, and he was up again.

He figured they'd haul back to Vegas. Doe conversed with House on that Pip-Boy of his, then beckoned him over.

They didn't go back. They hunted.

Up and down the mesa, on both sides of I-15, but always avoiding civilization. Sloan, Junction 15 and even Goodsprings remained only profiles in the distance. Doe, him, and one of the Securitrons, the latter always invisible. A weird party, but effective.

Boone had never called cazadores easy pickings before, but the entire nest went down without an itch or a sting. Surprise was one thing. Overwhelming firepower, another. Doe had good eyes even if he wasn't spotter-material, but he compensated with the M60. A couple grenades stunned the fast ones. The Securitron's lasers and missiles swept the rest away.

That was the highlight of the day, long before the sun reached its zenith. Soon, Boone found himself observing Doe from behind his shades. The Office believed the man had just walked out of a war Boone only ever heard stories about.

"Sleep or the Enclave will come and snatch you," his mother used to say.

Doe checked many of the stereotypical boxes he'd heard growing up: specism, energy weapons, being a dick; those, he had down to a tee. Just missing the black power armor and bug helmet. Taller than the average wastelander, but that could mean nothing: he ate like he didn't know when his next meal would come, or if.

How he changed around a fight told its own story. Quick to act, quicker to react; moves and a practiced ease that only came with extensive training, not talent alone. And yet, he seemed to lack the mental discipline that'd come with that level of training.

He was also on the lookout for something other than the intended prey. Boone recognized that look; it piqued his curiosity, just a bit. Doe searched the roads and paths, even inspected the cazadore nest and what remained of the camp the insects had taken over. He didn't say what for, just exchanged a few words with the Securitron and came back disappointed.

Boone knew he should try and ask, but didn't.

Other than that, Doe was a blank slate. At a few turns, he tried to start a conversation outside the necessary, idle talk, the weather, only to fall silent after a minute or two. That was fine. Hunting was a quiet business. After a few times, Boone got the impression it wasn't the one-way conversation that put Doe off. After Novac, he'd been insistent enough for information on Benny and Vegas.

Jessup's reticence and taunts didn't daunt him, either.

Now, with that page turned, it seemed Doe just didn't have much to say at all. Made sense, for an amnesiac.

As the hours crawled on and sweat beaded Boone's brow, Doe changed approach. Random questions, about the Mojave, California, and the NCR. History, geography, people. He'd indicate places on the screen and just ask how life was there or if Boone ever visited the area.

Was he gathering information, or experiences? Why questions so mundane? Wouldn't the Enclave already know all about that? Maybe Doe was trying to make him lower his guard? Could be. Or maybe he was just curious and bored.

Boone answered how he could. Silence wasn't his ally there: House was watching through the Securitron. He withheld details here and there, though. Nothing about the army, no personal information beyond the basics. That night, over an impromptu poker game in the cave they picked to camp, the questions veered too close to the latter.

"So, First Recon. Cass told me you guys were at Bitter Springs. Something to do with the Khans? What was the deal there?"

Silence and a turned back towards useless guard duty were Boone's answer. Doe picked up the message after that.

They'd told Boone to befriend Doe, but some things weren't theirs to decide. There were lines orders shouldn't cross. Boone's demons were his own, not to share with a stranger. Or an enemy.

Next day, half-a-dozen more Securitrons and two Mr. Handys were disappearing up Black Mountain's road by the time they returned to the visitor center. Boone made a note to himself: House wanted to hold the place badly.

One of the bots handed a sealed folder to Doe, whose face darkened with every page he flipped through. By the time he was done listening to the holotapes that came with the folder, Boone had made himself comfortable in the shade, and Doe looked ready to kill someone. House and he spoke briefly; or rather, House spoke. Doe was snarling. The other Securitron kept Boone too far off to catch more than the odd word.

' _Crimson. Fiends. Van Graffs. Mutants. Jacobstown. Crimson, again? Good Man. Legion.'_

Boone checked his pouches. He still had more than enough bullets for a Legion hunt.

Of course, then Doe told him they'd hike back to Vegas. Boone almost chuckled at that.

The trip back passed with minimal words shared between them. Doe's jaw worked like he was trying to find the right thing to say, but he never did. He fiddled with his Stealth-Boy from time to time, but didn't use it either. Sometimes, after playing with the switch, Doe glanced at him, then shook his head and glared ahead again, simmering.

They split off at sundown somewhere near the sharecropper farms, out of sight both from McCarran's sentries and patrols and the last workers in the fields. Doe handed him his payment, a heavy satchel packed with caps. Boone hooked it to his belt.

"The Ambassador was already informed I-15's clear again. Try and get some rest." A sharp turn and the crack of ozone was their goodbye and Doe vanished into thin air.

Later, after traversing the bustling desolation of Freeside, Boone found himself in his hotel room, a cheap enough outfit near the Strip's gates. He set down his rifle and sat gingerly on the bed. The bed was made, the sheets fresh and clean. The Strip was a loud echo booming beyond the drawn curtains. There was a minibar, half-empty, and unlit candles in a niche.

Every inch and sound reminded him of another room and a week of happiness that ought to feel like a dream, but didn't.

It was the smell, he told himself as he punched the pillow. Almost the same, but not quite. No perfume. The only other difference was the bed. A single post this time, and cold.

Carla was there when he closed his eyes, her back to him. She hummed along to the radio as she caressed the small bump in her belly.

"Hey, I'm back," he said. He didn't know why he was surprised his wife wasn't gone. Standing watch must be getting to him.

She smiled at him over her shoulder. Choked on the blood filling her lungs, a hole in her chest. The air smelled of iron and gunpowder.

His eyes snapped open, and he threw off the soaked sheets.

The Strip was alive when he walked out. Dazzling neons and music lured out the revelers. The air was hot in his lungs from too many bodies packed together, but it chilled his sweaty skin. From the rhythm of things around him, he almost couldn't tell there was a war beyond the concrete walls. Lights and tunes drowned the gunfire outside, but couldn't wholly remove the plumes of smoke lingering over Freeside.

Other signs jumped out at him. Fewer soldiers in the streets, throwing their wages away; more Securitrons around. Boone pushed against the current heading for the casinos, making for the gates instead.

Even at the late hour, the queue at House's food distribution center was dozens of people long, haggard and impatient and clustering around the working streetlights. A Mr. Handy was questioning a woman with two small children tugging at her skirts and a third in her arms. In moments, it printed the citizen IDs for the entire family, and another Mr. Handy handed them food from a crate.

The woman stole away like a thief clutching her hoard, herding her children on. Down the queue, a Securitron removed a haggard man from the line, inviting him to come back again the next day. Cursing at the machine, the man started off after the family. Boone sighed and quickened his pace.

A duo of Kings pulled the wannabe mugger into a side alley and away from the light of the main road before Boone could butt in. Boone left them to it, thought for a moment, and set out in the opposite direction. Soon, the Old Mormon Fort came within sight.

Boone halted. The Followers' flag was no longer upside down.

' _How much did House give them?'_

Feet shuffled behind him. Boone turned and grabbed the small hand reaching for Doe's payment on his belt.

"Por favor, señor," the boy pleaded, wincing as he tried to pull away. "I wasn't, I mean, I didn't -"

Boone eased his grip on the thin wrist, but didn't let go. "Hungry?"

"N-No, señor." A lie. Suspicion shone in the kid's eyes, then something like recognition. "You're el soldado who fought with señorita Beatrix? At the Fort?"

His Spanish didn't go beyond a few choice words, but one of those was _soldier_. The street was empty around them; didn't mean there weren't muggers behind the next corner, waiting for him to follow the kid.

"What's that to you?"

"The V-Vaquero wants to see you, señor."

Boone blinked. _'The Vaquero?'_

No muggers ambushed Boone and his guide on the way to the Spanish Quarter. Securitrons trundled up and down the streets, already a familiar fixture. They didn't ask him to show a gun permit despite his rifle and pistol, but the kid shied away, hiding behind Boone every time a TV-box rounded a corner. After the third such meeting, the kid didn't move away; one fist grabbed Boone's coat, guiding him with pulls and whispers.

It was a relief when he let go at the sight of a duo of Caballeros guarding a public water pump. Fully kitted out, as if ready for battle, they greeted the kid by name, and the three spoke in quick Spanish. Boone stayed back, watching. Sure enough, a Securitron moved around the edge of the nearby communal farm, but didn't pay the armed vigilantes any mind.

The lights were still on in Miguel's Repairs Shop, the doors open. The kid led Boone through not the largest collection of junk he'd ever seen, but the tidiest by far. Toasters here, radios there, lamps in the shelf below, and an entire wall covered in scrap and spare parts. Every piece labeled and grouped.

The ghoul in the rocking chair looked up from the locket in his hand, clicking it closed. Burned lips pulled into a smile under thin, black mustache. "Carlos! You're late, niño. But you brought company, so you're forgiven."

"El soldado, señor! The one you wanted to meet about señorita Beatrix!"

The smile widened and thinned. "Alrighty, well done." The ghoul put the head of a mechanical toy horse on a nearby table, then heaved himself up on bony arms. A few caps clinked from his jumpsuit's pocket into Carlos' cupped hands. "Go home now, or your mother will flay what remains of my skin."

The kid bounded off, avoiding the ghoul's hand and its hair-ruffling trajectory. Once the echo of his steps faded out of the shop, he sighed, deflating a bit. "Children. The wisest and the cruelest. Raul Alfonso Tejada, at your service."

Boone shook the offered hand, surprised at the weak grip. "Boone. The tag says Miguel."

"Sharp eyes. Can't remember what that's like, myself." Raul's fingers traced another oil smudge across the tag on his breast-pocket. "After so long, it'd be like losing an old friend. Here, pick a stool. I'm a terrible host."

Boone followed the ghoul to the counter, sitting on one side while Raul plodded on the other. A worn flag, a tricolor of green, white, and red with a faded symbol in the middle, took up part of the wall in front of Boone. A thick belt with two revolvers and a sombrero hung at either side of it.

He recognized the latter's decorations well enough. A naked mannequin stood in a corner.

"A bloody business and hell on my knees," Raul said, putting a bottle, two glasses, and an ashtray between them. "I still have to wash all the stains away. Smoke? Drink? It's good tequila."

Boone shook his head, crossed his arms on the counter, and waited.

Golden alcohol poured into one of the glasses; a musky aroma filled Boone's nostrils as Raul downed it in one go.

"Dr. Gannon told me you were with Beatrix when she went all Butch Cassidy."

Boone nodded. "A laser took her arm. It didn't stop her." The ghoul's blackened eyes urged him to say more, but no words formed.

"Fierce woman. Made me feel a century younger." A dry chuckle, like sandpaper on gravel. "The cowgirl y el bandido. It was a good gig for two ancient corpses like us."

It was a while before Raul's one thousand yard stare drifted back to Boone. "Ah, listen to me, rambling like a fool. You sure you won't join an old ghoul for a toast?"

It was difficult for Boone to reconcile the hunched over ghoul with the Vaquero he'd seen down his scope during that mad day, at the head of a mob with machete and revolver in hand. At last, as the awkwardness bloated, he nodded.

The glasses clinked. "To lost loved ones," Raul intoned. "Their song is ended, but the melody lives on."

Boone grimaced. Something pulled at his chest; he smothered it under the tequila. The alcohol burned on the way down, but the heat and the ripe flavor traveled up as well, spreading behind his nose.

He took his shades off, blinking away a tear. "It's good stuff. Strong," he said, putting the glass down. "She didn't leave any last message. I'm sorry." Had Carla? Had he fled Novac too soon? Boone eyed the bottle again.

"Oh, I know. She was a soldier to the end. Stubborn woman." Raul refilled both glasses. "Died so someone else could live. The Followers, the wounded, and you. I wanted to see what she saw in you." He chuckled. "You're prettier than me."

Had she seen anything in him at all? If they'd missed each other that evenings at the Tops, if he'd followed Manny at the Phoenix instead... Boone downed the tequila. The burn helped. Carla's face melted into Beatrix's. Better. They'd worked together for less than a day, with only passing contact. "I owe her, but I can't repay you." He forced himself to look up from the drink and meet Raul's eyes. "I know what's coming to me. Today, tomorrow. It's something I have to deal with."

"You're luckier than most. Few know their future so well."

A different kind of heat spread out from Boone's stomach, crawling up his spine. He pushed away from the counter. "Thanks for the drink."

Raul's posture shifted. His face hardened.

"Stay," the Ghoul Vaquero said. Boone stopped despite himself. A moment later, Raul gave a tired chuckle. "Forgive an old ghoul his sarcasm. Here, have another."

Boone sat down again, but didn't pick up the glass. "Not now."

The ghoul shrugged and fixed himself another. "I know your look, kid. Seen it plenty of times. Felt it. You're out for revenge, but do you know when to stop? Beatrix didn't die for you to waste your life like that."

Boone hadn't even started on that front. Ranger Station Charlie and the camp counted barely as a start. "It's something I have to do."

And yet, here he was. ' _Should've walked east, not north.'_ But then, he wouldn't have been at the Old Mormon Fort.

Maybe he'd refused the last drink too quickly.

"It always is," Raul said, " and it's good to put ghosts to rest, but that's time nobody gives you back. You aren't a ghoul."

"It doesn't matter."

"Only until it does and your knees creak with every other step." Raul picked up his glass and turned around, one elbow on the counter. He toasted at the flag on the wall, then sipped from his drink. How many was that? "The bombs left us in strange times, don't you think? I don't mean all the radiation. In all this devastation, one person can build a community, make it stronger. One person can make or break a nation. Take your NCR and the Legion." Boone glared at the ghoul. Was he out to provoke him, or just drunk? "Tandi, Caesar, to each his own."

"President Tandi died decades ago," Boone managed through gritted teeth. "She wasn't a dictator. Didn't build the NCR on slavery."

Raul nodded. "And yet her policies still guide the NCR. Think if she was a ghoul."

Where was he going with this? "You say you're that kind of person?" Boone tried, every word unsure.

"I'm just an old gunslinger that repairs old things." Boone received a rueful smile. "This corner of Freeside already makes my bones ache. Anything bigger would snap me in half." Boone raised an eyebrow, then frowned. Where was this coming from? Why him? "A nation needs shoulders broader than mine to stand on, brains that aren't rotten." Raul clinked his half-empty glass with Boone's, now full again, and downed the rest in one go. "But it also needs heart. Too much brains and too little heart already set the world on fire once."

Boone stood from the stool on unsteady legs, then thought again. He picked up his glass and threw the tequila back. No reason to let it go to waste. The warmth would be welcome in the cool night outside if someone thought he made a good target.

"Robert House was always brains back in the day," Raul sighed, shaking his head. "That, and ego. Comes with being a genius superstar, I guess. And now he's some soulless machine-god, can't have much heart left, can he?"

Already on his way out, his mind numb, Boone stopped. His mind went back to the armed Caballeros patrolling the Spanish Quarter. "You're working with him."

"For him. The angry soldier robots with bazookas don't leave much of a choice, huh? Cheers."

Boone grunted in farewell, leaving the ghoul to his tequila and misery.

* * *

The postern door was unlocked, the guard absent. Just like Mr. House said. John slipped inside, latched the bolt, and ghosted along the compound wall. The grounds were mostly desert, sleeping cattle and the odd patrolling guard the only blotches of red and yellow in his visor. The stench of manure was pungent after a day baking in the sun.

He kept his distance from both, making a beeline undisturbed for the only office with lights still on.

The NCR Ambassador, Crocker, had spoken to Radio New Vegas only hours before, confirming I-15 was safe for travel again. It wasn't hard to guess what had the top executives still up at work around midnight.

' _Up, about, and alone, if he's done his job.'_

John tested the back door; the handle offered no resistance. Words reached him from beyond the thin door as he checked and double-checked nobody would spot the door opening from the outside.

"Alice, stock prices will lift to near pre-blockade levels within a couple weeks –" a man said.

The woman cut him short. "- and many will sell to cut their losses and recover as much money as they can. Draw a summon for an early shareholders' meeting. I'll have to calm down the investors, face to face –"

He'd heard enough and was inside a moment later, flipping up his visor to see their faces and show his. The two of them were alone, all curtains in the office drawn shut. It looked like they had been at it for a while, pressed suits wrinkled, combed hair rebelling, and a quick dinner thrown in a distant sink. The cool air gusting around him into the stuffy room had stopped them both.

Don Hostetler swallowed, the jowly face John'd memorized from Mr. House's dossier now pale and sweaty.

Alice McLafferty's befuddlement was over in moments, by comparison.

"You can drop the Stealth Boy," the CEO of the Crimson Caravan Company said, fixing both her jacket and her wrinkled face, "neither of us are armed."

Still cloaked, John walked around her desk and removed the laser pistol from behind the stack of files at her elbow.

The stealth field rippled around him, making his skin tingle. "No, you aren't."

"An impressive entrance, mister," McLafferty said as if a heavily armed man hadn't just materialized in her office. "Are you looking for work? We have no current openings for caravaneers or guards, but maybe I could make an exception."

John's answer was slapping the folder in front of her. He'd half expected Mr. House to stamp something dramatic on the front, but it was blank and non-assuming, if thick.

"Read."

McLafferty was almost amused. She placed the holotapes on top to one side, then picked up the first file. A few lines in, her expression grew grave.

Hostetler was trying to catch John's eye, shuffling away from the desk as if McLafferty was about to catch on fire. That didn't sound like a half-bad idea if her fate was up to him. But it never was. This time around, he was just the intermediary. It was only right.

Her hands were starting to tremble. Good. The folder contained copies of Gloria's ledger, her blackmailing tapes, and pictures of McLafferty's personal documents, the latter taken by Mr. House's man on the inside.

The pieces of the puzzle were all there.

Their alliance to break the Gun Runners' monopoly by stealing their schematics from their factory in the Mojave, then use them to get their share of the fortune the NCR disbursed every year to keep its wars going. Those caps, long-term, would finance Crimson's expansion in the railway industry and fund the Van Graff takeover of New Reno.

McLafferty's plan to re-establish Crimson's monopoly on the water trade from Lake Mead at the expense of the minor caravans, handily picked off by Gloria's kill-teams.

Accounts of energy weapons deliveries to the Fiends through Crimson's caravans, a trade that filled Gloria's coffers and bought Crimson safe passage around Vegas, leaving the competition to fend off the armed junkies and psychos.

Bodies piled on even more bodies. Mr. House's estimate of the numbers had his stomach wound into a knot, but it was the memory of Cass branded in his mind, the redhead drunk and suicidal at her caravan's graves, that tested John's restraint and control.

Long minutes passed. McLafferty pulled out a cigarette, lighting it on the fourth try. A few puffs later, she found her voice again.

"How did you get these – Nevermind. You're in on this, Don, aren't you?" Her voice was steel. Any straighter and her back would snap like a twig. "You know I can always double their offer."

"No. No, you can't," he said, without meeting the eye of anyone in the room. One hand went up to pull at his already loosened tie. "No hard feelings, Alice. I just – they didn't give me a choice." Head bowed, he picked up his hat and scurried out. John watched him go, glaring a hole in his back.

Hostetler was involved in the whole deal, up to his neck. If Mr. House hadn't insisted the man was necessary for the future... For now, McLafferty would have to do. She was the mastermind behind it all anyway.

"He was my right-hand for seven years," she said with a sigh after the door closed after Hostetler, leaving them alone. "Who do you work for, mister? Who's blackmailing him? The Jamisons? President Kimball?" Her eyes narrowed. "Or are you with the Office?"

He almost snorted at that notion. Let McLafferty's fears and suspicions mislead her. "I'm keeping a promise to a friend." Reaching for his pocket, he produced a letter of resignation printed by Mr. House on Crimson's letterhead. He placed it in front of her and set her fountain pen across it. It was an effort to not just grab her by the throat and squeeze. It'd be easy, but too quick for all the death and agony she caused.

He tapped the paper. "Sign it, here and now. If you pack your bags within the next hour, I'll let you take the first train out of the Mojave."

She didn't even look at the pen. "Quit? And leave this branch to Henry Jamison and that spineless coward? Spare me." After a long drag, she extinguished the cigarette into an ornate metal ashtray, engraved with an inscription and the NCR bear. "What will you do if I refuse? Take this folder to the NCR, at the risk of disrupting the army's logistics with a witch hunt? Now that the Legion's on the offensive again?" She gave him a once-over. "Kill me, in the middle of my compound, surrounded by dozens of my guards?"

John reached over and picked up the ashtray with his left. Never breaking eye contact, he crushed it inch by inch into his palm, issuing a silent challenge not to flinch at the low screech of metal.

She blinked only once. The warped piece of metal _thudded_ on top of the blank sheet of paper.

"I got in. I can get out." And best case scenario, avoid spilling unnecessary blood. But she didn't need to know that.

"That was a gift from President Peterson, a martyr of the NCR." She weighed the metal blob, then dropped it into a garbage bin. "And how many of my employees will die in your escape?"

John saw red. "Fewer than the caravans you've had hit!" he hissed. "People's lives aren't just business and caps."

"I see. It's easier if you convince yourself everyone you hate is a black-hearted villain, isn't it? That I believe in nothing but money?" She glared right back at him like he was a radroach to crush under her heel. "You're sorely mistaken, mister. I firmly believe in the advance of civilization. The Crimson Caravan Company brought the South-West together when the NCR we know was just an idea in President Tandi's mind. Progress rides on the backs of our caravans. We won't stop just because you throw some papers in my face."

"No, you mistake me. This was never a transaction. These files, the tapes, I have other copies." John leaned in with both palms on her desk, looming over her. "The Gun Runners's compound is just down the road," he whispered, inches away from her face. Her breath smelled of cigarettes and peppers. "I hear they have unique ways to deal with corporate espionage."

The smugness shed from her face like dead skin, revealing the age and fatigue underneath. John glued his eyes to McLafferty's as she searched him for the tells of a bluff, leaning back in her chair when she found none. Mr. House had an exhaustive dossier on the Gun Runners, detailing how a gang of hard-working gunsmiths had grown to become president makers and political lobbyists. If the Crimson Caravan Company and the various brahmin barons controlled one half of the Congress, the Gun Runners alone backed the other half and lined their pockets.

 _"President Kimball owes them his political career and his election after the Congress Bombing,"_ Mr. House had said over another poker game, _"_ _and General Oliver has been in their pocket since he was an ambitious yuppie officer, long before his consecration at the Battle of Dayglow. The threat they pose is on par with the Office of Intelligence at the very least, but the latter doesn't hold the blade of bankruptcy at the NCR's throat. Not yet, at least."_

By the time McLafferty found her voice again, only ashes and a smoking stub remained of her cigarette.

"Can you imagine what they'd do if they learned? Do you even know the power they hold, how much my country owes them?" His silence and whatever she saw on his face were enough of an answer, because she looked down at the letter and picked up the pen with a sigh. "And you say I'm the monster."


	23. 20) Best Served Flambé

**Missing in Action 20) Best Served Flambé**

 _Double milestone reached with the last chapter: 10.000 views and 300 reviews. And more than two months of hiatus. Again. Whoopity Whoop! My thanks to_ _ **ScrimshawPen, DmCrebel25, Paladin Bailey, DocMarter2525, WilSquare (x2), Aegon BlackSteel, The Desert Dancer, PartyPat22 (x4), Winding Warpath (x2), HelveticaStandard, IAmTheAble, Master Doom Maker (x2), Colstrent (x2)**_ _and Guest (x2 as I assume it's the same person? Blink twice if yes)_ _for their feedback, reviews, and support._

 _Warning: there're a few paragraphs retelling disturbing events later on in the chapter. I've tried to be delicate and non-explicit with the most disturbing parts, but still, be warned._

 _Edit 04/05: You know the drill by now. Thank **PartyPat22** for removing the glaring affronts to English in this chapter. _

0 = MiA = 0

"As per your messenger's request, madam McLafferty," Mortimer said, pushing the double doors open to reveal the luxurious penthouse. A smug smirk curled the manager's bloodless lips. "You won't find better accommodations anywhere else on the Strip, madam. A lucky coincidence: monsieur Gunderson's just vacated it earlier this morning." The cadaveric beanpole in the frock and top hat grimaced down his nose and thin mustache at Alice's own guard and the stains their boots left on the hallway's carpet. "Your attendees can bunk downstairs."

"There's enough room here for everyone; we'll share. Carmen, Laredo." The two guards marched past the concierge, bullets chambered in their rifles and eyes peeled. Quick and professional, they began checking every corner and hiding hole for invisible ambushers. "Thank you, Mortimer. That will be all for now."

Gone was the look Mortimer had given her when she'd walked in, like a man considering an exotic meal. Disgust and anger hardened his pale features as her employees got their dusty paws all over silken curtains and unique pieces of pre-War décor, each irreplaceable and worth a small fortune.

Alice allowed herself a small smile. It was too bad he forwent the porcelain mask the rest of the White Glove Society favored, really. At least he would have preserved his dignity, that way. Mortimer could frown and grumble all he liked, but there was no question about who could look down on the other.

More than a brahmin baron like Heck Gunderson, she was the kind of paying customer even the White Glove Society had to swallow their faux elitism for and bend backward to accommodate.

He still managed a retort at her dismissal, "Lunch will be served in half an hour, madam."

"One hour," she corrected him. "I wish to take a bath first."

He stormed away, frock-tail swishing in utter defeat, muttering about "upstart riff-raff" until the elevator doors cut him off. Alice remained standing and suffered in silence for a few more minutes until Carmen popped out of one of the guest bedrooms and gave the all clear.

She left her two other guards to preside over the entrance hall and the elevator, then retreated alone into the main bedroom. There, she laid her briefcase beside an already prepared change of clothes, and from there retreated into the adjoining bathroom.

Only with the door locked behind her did Alice McLafferty allow her countenance to finally crack and slip. Her shoulders drooped and she plopped down on a vanity chair with a pained sigh. Her short heels went rolling on the fluffy rug and she massaged her swollen, aching ankles as the faucets poured steaming water into the jacuzzi.

Walking all the way from the compound to the Strip had taken more out of her than she'd expected; old age and years of agreeable office life had softened her. There was more white than gray in her hair these days; her caravan days were long behind her, and the low heels didn't help either.

Back at the Hub or Shady Sands, her chauffeur would drive her from meeting to meeting. In the war-torn Mojave, the only option was walking or riding a cart, but the latter would draw too much attention to her on the Strip.

With attention came questions; questions led to whispers and rumors she couldn't allow to travel ahead of her.

After the latest developments and Don's backstabbing, she couldn't afford another mistake. The guards she'd selected were long-time Crimson employees, Scourge veterans who'd handled sensitive business for her at some point or another. She trusted them to follow orders without question, but Don had been more trusted than any of them. Loyalty was something she could no longer take for granted, especially among her closest associates, but the need for protection was non-negotiable in Vegas.

Especially when her rivals' eyes may well already be following her next moves, and the Gun Runners' compound wasn't too far off.

Alice let her dusty business suit pool around her feet, her skin prickling from the cold, and set an ashtray on the jacuzzi's edge. She lowered herself into the soapy water to her chin, sighing in relief as the scalding warmth engulfed her. Soon, the heat and water started to work their magic, loosening the knots in her calves and silencing all those numb aches that never seemed to leave her these days.

Closing her eyes, she let herself float, but too much had happened for her mind to drift away for too long.

The evidence had blindsided her, but she hadn't risen to her position by folding at the first sign of hardship. Moves could and would be taken, but one thing was certain: she needed to put her finger on the pulse of things first of all, and she couldn't do that hundreds of miles away from the Core States.

The thug's handlers wanted her away from the Mojave? She was more than willing to oblige them. Coming to the Mojave, in retrospect, had been a mistake.

Alice paddled through the bubbles to the submerged seat and switched the water jets on, then lit herself a cigarette. Her power base was in the Hub and Shady Sands, where her political friends and the Crimson Caravan's influence would shield her from the Gun Runners' retaliation, at least the more iron-fisted kind. Once there, she could claim she'd been strong-armed into signing those papers – technically the truth - and then weather the storm that'd inevitably come if – when the evidence was turned to the public and the press.

Nobody in possession of that kind of ammunition would be content for long with just a morsel. They'd come for more, sooner rather than later, but this time, they'd find her ready.

She took a long drag, letting the smoke fill her lungs and slither out as she stared up at the ceiling, wishing it held all answers. Or really, just one.

Who? Who was behind this ploy, holding the threat of the Gun Runners above her head? Who had the gall to send someone to threaten her in her own office? The man who'd shown up had the brawn, but wasn't subtle or patient enough, she could tell after their short conversation. He'd treated with her with his face exposed, which made him either very stupid, very confident that she couldn't retaliate, or both. He had a personal stake in her downfall, skilled muscle with a maneuverable purpose, but the folder and the way the evidence was arranged for her perusal spoke of precision and attention to detail.

Perhaps worse, it reeked of careful mockery.

Names rattled around in her head as she lit a second cigarette, then a third. The Jamisons, clawing for years to get out of her shadow and assert their privileges; Heck Gunderson himself, lusting for more caps like another half-dozen brahmin barons and senators with their fingers in Crimson's stocks. All had cause and interests at stake, but none of them understood that Crimson wasn't just about caps and influence. And yet, some of them could have dug up dirt on Don, something worse than the odd extra-marital affair with some vapid secretary.

It was a possibility, and yet, there were the pictures of Gloria's ledgers. Their inclusion, more than the transcriptions and physical copies of the tapes from their meetings, made her discard all those options one after the other.

Alice snuffed out the third stub and grabbed a bar of scented soap. The repetitive, methodical movements as she cleaned herself helped her focus her thoughts.

She'd expected no less from Gloria than to keep a security blanket in such a risky endeavor. Alice had her own personal tapes secured in her briefcase: a guarantee of mutual collaboration, tacitly agreed on by both parties. One didn't just go stomping on the Gun Runners' toes without taking a few extra measures and exercising caution, not to mention helping finance a long-term gang war against Mr. Bishop in New Reno, or recreating a monopoly on the water trade into California.

The issue was that Gloria's ledgers should be ashes. She would have sent copies of the tapes to Matriarch Tiaret in New Reno, but the pictures Alice had seen the night before were of the originals, written and signed by Gloria's hand. What Alice knew of the woman spoke of an obsessive jealousy of her own business from the other family branches.

Who? Who?! House? The Ghost of Vegas had taken Freeside by storm and destroyed Gloria's organization in one night, imprisoning the Van Graffs pending trial, but he also put an NCR Major behind bars. After yesterday's radio broadcasts, she strongly suspected he had cleared out the deathclaws from I-15 as well, but Securitrons weren't built to be subtle. She supposed the man in the tower could have sent a few in to grab everything and then detonate the place, but every time she tried to picture that scene in her mind, she found herself returning to the thug instead.

Or rather, to the metal ashtray he'd crushed in his hand, with strength similar to Brotherhood cyborgs.

Alice's teeth bit into the stub of her fourth cigarette as she emerged from the now-cool water and dried herself off. She'd been skirting around the obvious for hours. The evidence was right under her nose. Sometimes, people made mistakes and the simplest solution was also the right one. The nicotine rush soothed her nerves some, enough that she didn't snap when someone rapped on the door.

"Ma'am? Lunch's here," Carmen called.

A glance at the clock told her that Mortimer still thought he could lay down the law. Little tribal upstart. "Send it back and remind Mortimer I said one hour. Not a minute sooner." Carmen assented, but Alice didn't hear her move away from the door. "Anything else?"

"The waiter's brought up some old bottle, ma'am. A present from that Mortimer guy. The label says it's a 1959 Dom Perignon. Looks quite pricey and vintage."

"Ah, I see." That was indeed an expensive bottle. If Mortimer wanted to make amends, that was quite the entrée. Alice shook her head; no, the weasel likely wanted to butter her up for some later favor. Still, it was a 1959 Dom Perignon. "Keep the bottle then. Send the rest back."

Alice waited for the click of the far door closing behind Carmen, then walked out of the bathroom and picked her fresh clothes up. Steps, low chatter, and the clinks of a table being undone reached her from the dining area, muffled by the thick walls. Thoughts of rare drinks fled from her mind when she looked at herself in the mirror.

The tight crow's feet around her eyes reminded her of all the challenges and obstacles she'd overcome to reach her position, to steer Crimson, and by extension the NCR, to a better future. This wasn't her first dance with overachieving dicks who thought they knew better than her.

The Iron General would have to be taught the same lesson everyone else learned, it seemed.

More than her personal rivals or even House, that fascist Navache and his pet Office of Intelligence checked all the boxes. During the Steel Scourge, it was him and his fanatic Guard of Iron who had first pickings of the Brotherhood bunkers they wiped out, stripping cybernetics and prosthetics from their dead cyborgs. Not only that, but even before the Scourge, long before he became the Iron General and was merely a Captain, Navache was in charge of Navarro for years; many voices had it he meddled with Enclave tech and pre-bombs military experiments even then.

It was also around that time, almost twenty years ago, that rumors of a killer-cyborg began circulating in the wake of strange accidents and violent deaths all over the NCR and beyond. That trail of death had culminated in the spectacular murder of Telemaque Van Graff in his very home, just a couple years back. A rogue Brotherhood experiment unleashed to wreak havoc in the NCR, many said over the years, and especially in the wake of the Congress's destruction.

Such a pretty fairy tale. Her own people in New Reno had reported years before that Matriarch Tiaret strongly suspected the killer-cyborg was none other than John Cassidy, one of Navache's old acquaintances from when he was just an unwashed tribal.

Of course, nobody could bring an NCR high officer and war hero to court on the grounds of rumors alone, no matter how fortuitous the events, and so the Van Graffs had to make do with turning the life of Cassidy's daughter into hell, hoping to draw him out. Alice hadn't been surprised at all when Gloria insisted Cassidy Caravans be put on top of the list of targets, all those months ago.

The caravan was dead now, its name swallowed by Crimson, but of John Cassidy, there had been no trace. Alice wasn't surprised. What did they expect? The man ought to be pushing for one-hundred years by then. It wasn't too far-fetched that Navache would replace him with a younger operative, or maybe more than one, an entire wetwork team. It was really too bad for him the brute had literally tipped his hand in that useless display of physical intimidation.

"That was sloppy work, Navache," she said to the mirror as she finished drying her hair and began to comb it. "Very sloppy. You should have sent your boy to kill me, not make threats."

Another cigarette took the edge off her indignation and anger. Yes, the more she contemplated the pieces, the more it all added together. Navache had the means, and he certainly had the motive and ambition. The presidential elections were coming up next year; he'd need economic and political backers for his bid to stop Kimball from receiving his third mandate.

Even with the President and his pet Oliver taking all the heat for the disastrous losses of the Mojave campaign, on top of the Divide's total debacle and failing to destroy the Legion after the First Battle of Hoover Dam, Kimball and Oliver were still regarded as war-heroes, loved by many.

And what votes love couldn't buy, the Gun Runners could for them.

That support and the Followers' condemnation of Navache's brutality in his personal vendetta against the Brotherhood had already cost him the elections once already. Kimball had relegated him to sieging Lost Hills for almost a decade now, after the short detour through Helios One.

And yet, if everyone in the NCR had learned one thing about the Chosen One, it was that he didn't take a slight or loss by laying down. One needed just ask the ghosts of the Enclave, or what remained of the Brotherhood.

Chances were, if he'd moved against her, the next Crimson CEO and a number of the major shareholders were already in Navache's pocket, ready to pump caps and influence into backing his campaign out of fear and greed. With the Office sniffing around everywhere, Navache certainly had the means to dig enough blackmail material to force them and even her right hand to jump fences.

Alice swallowed the pang of stinging betrayal that came with every thought of Hostetler, focusing on her next moves as she made for the door. Lunch should be served on time right about then, and she was starving for some exquisite food and a chalice of that champagne.

A tall, masked waiter in a spotless tuxedo was indeed setting domed serving trays over a pure-white tablecloth. The dining table was set for five, complete with crystal chalices and ornate plates, though Alice noticed the positioning lacked the usual maniacal precision she'd come to appreciate in her past visits to the Ultra-Luxe. The Dom Perignon dominated in the middle, resting in a tall bucket filled with ice. Carmen was playing it cool, but Alice didn't miss Laredo eyeing the bottle like some pole dancer at the Gomorrah. The other two guards were closer to the door than she remembered as well, throwing the odd look over their shoulders.

Alice shook her head. Professionals or not, few could resist the unique pull of unexperienced luxuries. The moment the waiter had set the last tray on the table, she beckoned her guards with a gesture.

"Inez, Tobias, come in. Waiter, pour us some of that champagne."

The cork was off in one motion and the chalices were filled swiftly, if somewhat awkwardly. Alice nearly rolled her eyes, but at least the waiter was careful to spill none of it. Better for him: the bottle alone likely cost more than he'd make in five years.

"A cheer," she intoned, raising her glass. "To loyalty and the future of our country. Hard times are ahead of us, but we'll emerge stronger than ever. The horizon is the limit."

Alice knew her wines, and the Dom Perignon was an utter disappointment. Plain and only slightly sparkling, it left a weird aftertaste as it went down. It figured Mortimer had sent her a spoiled bottle. She read the confusion plain on her guards' faces as well: Inez and Ethan exchanged a look, then spit some of it back into the glass. The waiter was quick to avoid her smoldering glare by busying himself with revealing the fish-based dishes. It was a good move because soon all of them were digging in, enticed by the rich aromas. Alice's hunger didn't allow her to lag too far behind.

Halfway through her maccheroni, she realized she couldn't remember the name of her secretary at the Hub. Her thoughts were looping in circles, surrounded by mist. The sound of working jaws slowed, sluggish. Someone yawned. More answered. Her fork rattled against a plate, leaving numb fingers. Through heavy lids, Alice saw Carmen sway dangerously, then topple from her chair.

It took her long moments to process what she'd just seen, blinking a couple of times to try and clear the stuffing from her head, tongue, and limbs.

Laredo slumped face-first into his plate, hand falling limp just short of his rifle. Then the waiter was behind Tobias and Inez before the two could even reach for their weapons. Something flashed and crackled in his hand as he touched both in the neck. Their limbs locked, bashing against the underside of the table; their eyes rolled in their sockets before they too went limp.

Alice's legs didn't answer her; even the rush of panic ebbed under a building tide of drowsiness. Her muscles relaxing, she blinked; when she forced her eyes open again, the waiter was looming over her, the compact device in his hand sparkling with electricity. The porcelain mask was gone, revealing a familiar face set in grim lines.

"You really thought you got to walk away with just a slap on the wrist?"

Electricity and pain shot through her. Her eyes filled with bursting stars, but the scream never left her throat.

* * *

It wasn't until her second day at the Happy Trails' compound in Westside that Cass began to feel like a brahmin had trampled all over her and then took a dump in her brain because why the hell not. Her busted shoulder, cradled into a sling, was just the loudest voice in a Hail Mary of aching joints and muscles, and every breath sprinkled with nausea and sweat long before the Mojave sun drove people to a siesta.

It was a small mercy the compound was half-empty, so nobody but that walking fossil Tom Joad tending to the brahmins and the twitchy gun-for-hire Layla – who definitely wasn't an NCR army deserter, no sir, - were there to see or hear her traveling back and forth from the outhouse. Jed Masterson and his daughter Jane, sharp but over-eager at only seventeen, had been out since morning to strike a deal with the big names of the Westside-Ashton Co-Op – and by extension Red Lucy's Thorn, with all the exotic leftovers from the pit-fights.

They'd rented the compound to Happy Trails in the first place, and a lot of the goods they'd carry to New Canaan would come from them. By their reputation, the bartering would likely take father and daughter 'till late evening. The Divide's survivors were stubborn folk who drove a hard bargain, but everyone in the business agreed their goods were also always worth the hassle.

' _That's the kind of work ethic that comes with survivin' the second end-of-the-world.'_

She ended up doing less than half of the logistics work she'd figured she would and altogether left the task of copying the maps from her Pip-Boy to someone with two working hands; instead, she wasted what seemed like hours staring at the locked drawer where she'd hidden her small stash of med-x, arguing in circles with herself.

By the time the two Mastersons were back with a half-decent deal for some solar panels spare parts, the drawer was still untouched. Cass tried to convince herself that was a small victory. She forfeited dinner outright, claiming to feel only half as bad as she really did, and beat an early retreat into her room, leaving Jane to ask for her fix of 'on-the-road' stories from someone else.

The girl was good company – definitely had a better mind for numbers than Cass herself, or her dad - but she still had to learn to take a clue in certain situations.

The next morning, Cass was so weak she could barely crawl out of her sweat-soaked bed to grab a bottle of water with her working hand; wracked by shivers, cramps, itches she couldn't scratch enough, and so much pain for a moment she thought she was back in the Legion camp, she curled under her sheets, only poking her head out to drink and then puke bile on the floor. With her heart thundering in her ears, she swore to herself she'd tough it out before anyone could see her.

It was a masterpiece of wishful thinking. By mid-morning, she was out of excuses and voice to stall Jed out, and even the locked door didn't keep the busybodies out for too long. By the sound of things, Tom Joad busted the lock and flimsy wood with a kick, and then they were all swarming around her.

"Cass! The hell's going on now?" Jed asked, keeping his daughter back with an arm. Jane wiggled around it, presenting a plastic cup filled with metallic water from the pump outside. Cass could only thank the young woman with a nod and by not puking on her shoes, cowboy-style.

"Don't shout," Cass croaked out after taking a sip, all the while trying to wiggle into a half-sitting position. "It's just a fever. I'll be back on my feet by tomorrow. Leave me alone."

"That's a loa' of horseshite, young lady." Tom Joad marched in, mouth a thin line under his snow-white bush of a beard, probably to hide his rotted teeth. Hunched over as he was, he remained tall and broad for someone who'd probably seen more years than the Republic had. Steady hands cupped her face and sharp eyes bore into hers, but his breath reeked worse than some corpses she'd seen baking in the sun. "Col' sweat. Yeh're shiverin' like a kitten, but yeh ain't burnin' and yeh ain't stopped pukin' since yesterday." Then to Jed, "I think it's high time the lady doctor earns her keep."

What she needed was for the wrinkled-ass, meddlesome relic to get his hands off her and for the others to mind their own business, but of course, that was too many syllables. Before she could say anything, it was already out of her hands. A bald, matronly woman answered the call; to Cass, she looked more the part of the calf-strangler than the doctor's.

At least Dr. Amy Wilks, as she introduced herself, wasn't a demented Mr. Orderly demanding a gynecological exam in a room full of recording cameras. Cass supposed she should be thankful for that if nothing else, but right then and there, she would have given a kidney for a shot of addictol to help her surf past the worst of the withdrawal.

Of course, that stuff was worth more than both her kidneys and Dr. Wilks had none anyway.

"Look, I can't help you if you don't help me," the doctor tried again, looking up from her clipboard. "How much med-x did you take, and for how long?"

"With all due respect, Doc, that's none of your damn business," Cass grunted, turning her eyes to the ceiling to try and make the older woman understand the conversation was over. "Really, I can handle myself. Always have. This ain't much different."

Dr. Wilks' sigh was drawn out and loaded with years of repetition, but her voice remained level. "The door's closed. It's only you and me here, Rose." Cass exhaled hard and that alone made her headache spike until her eyes felt like cracked ball bearings, but the woman was as relentless as a charging yao-guai. "What you say will remain between us, I promise. Where I learned medicine, they also taught me to value and respect a patient's privacy, and that's one oath I've never broken. Besides, you're in no condition to leave this room, much less journey all the miles to New Canaan."

Cass winced, biting back the first comeback that came to her lips. She'd tried not to think along those lines for a while now, downplay her issues, but hearing it from someone else made it all that much more real. She'd thought she had her addiction under control, that it wasn't even addiction in the first place but some kind of temporarily acquired taste. Now, lying in bed, she didn't need a mirror to know she was a sorry sight even to someone half-blind.

At that moment, Cass felt a lot like she was twelve again and her mom was scolding her after she roughed up one of the boys in the neighborhood. Only at the time, she'd never born her bruises with shame, but bursting with teenage pride.

"And where was that?" She asked, trying to buy time. God, she hated how petulant she sounded. "Where did you learn, I mean?"

"The Boneyard's University, when it was still a decent institution. I heard the NCR took it over in recent years."

"You're a Follower?"

"It was a long time ago." There was a certain tightness around the doctor's eyes and mouth. She huffed. "Let's just say that even among the free-thinking, there're lines to toe and company you better not keep. Now, enough dillydallying." Something in the doctor's tone stopped Cass from looking away. Dr. Wilks raised an expectant eyebrow. "How long has it been?"

"A couple of weeks, more or less. 'Bout half-a-syringe a day the first week, then I started to cut back." Dr. Wilks' other eyebrow joined the first. "Tried to," Cass amended, voice low. "I started in Novac. One of the Followers there gave me the med-x for the pain, and then I just kept takin' it as I found it. I had a lot on my mind and – I don't know, it made things easier for a little while. More bearable. I know, it's a slippery slope and all that jazz. Don't say it."

"Believe me, I understand. I'm not here to judge you, but I need to ask a few more questions. This pain you've mentioned: I assume you were wounded and it's not a chronic thing instead?"

Cass remained silent for a time, worrying at her lower lip when the doctor asked again, explaining what chronic pain was. Cass only listened with half an ear. She was still wearing the same clothes she'd gone to sleep in, soaked with sweat and stale vomit as they were. After some time, she felt Dr. Wilks' hand over hers, calloused palm warm against her clammy skin.

It was another minute or so before the first words tumbled out of her mouth.

"My partner and I, we were passin' through Nipton when the Legion raided the place. Fought back hard enough they nicked us and put a collar 'round our necks rather than nail us to a cross." Dr. Wilks squeezed her hand, keeping it pinned to the mattress. It stopped Cass from rubbing her neck where she could still feel the metal when she swallowed. "And we were the lucky ones."

Cass took a steadying breath, letting it out with a shudder. "You know, I was in Shady the day the Congress blew up, but when I think about Hell now, I just see Nipton burnin'."

She stared at the dip in the sheets between her knees until she nearly went cross-eyed, but terror stopped her from closing her eyes. Even in the safety of the compound, if she let her thoughts wander the cloying smell of burning tires and charred flesh filled her nostrils. Her ears echoed with the thudding of hammers on nails, the wails, moans, and pleads as the Legion marched her under every cross on the way out of the town.

A not-so-gentle shake of her shoulder dragged her out of the rabbit hole. Cass found herself blinking at a stone-faced Dr. Wilks. She'd almost forgotten the older woman was sitting beside her.

"If you want to continue some other time –"

"No. No, it's fine. I think, no, I know I need this. Just – gimme a moment, please." It didn't help that a lot of those two days came to her in flashes and bursts, jumping between day and night willy-nilly.

"The second day, they gathered everyone up, marched us east. Dozens, Doc, dozens of women and brats, all in collars and chains. That night, things took a turn for worse, if you can even believe it. The funny thing is, it was only a few hours before the Veteran Rangers swept in guns blazin', but of course we didn't know that. If they'd been just a bit faster -"

Cass shook her head, but there was no stopping her eyes from burning. Blinking only made her vision blurry. "One of the prisoners, a Ranger named Stella, had offed one of their officers earlier that day. Rather than go alon' with their little planned execution, to break the children n' all, she humiliated their champion before everyone's eyes. It was a sight, but they beat her nearly to death for that. And that was just the start."

Her throat was itching. Cass forced down some offered water, hoping it would stay there, at least for a little while. The memories the chems had kept on a leash were pouring in now, denser and clearer. She couldn't stop talking. Didn't really want to, either. She needed to get this off her chest, right there and then.

"She'd pissed the dead guy's unit off to no end, so they decided to have a little fun in the prisoners' pen. Teach us another kind of lesson. They took turns with anyone they got their hands on. Dragged 'em in the middle kickin' and screamin' for all to see as they tore into 'em. Doled out all the punishment they could short of ruinin' the merchandise. That's what they called us. They didn't pick me, and Stella was out too, but we were the exceptions. Didn't stop them from beatin' the crap out of me where the bruises wouldn't show when I tried to get in the way. After a round or two, all I could do was watch."

And watch she had. She couldn't even turn her head away and they smacked her with the flat of a blade every time she dared close her eyes. Pressed against the doctor's shoulder, every single moment of abuse passed right before her eyes.

"Bastards went wild. Took moms in front of their kids, forced siblings to watch one aother be broken, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough. Never." She choked on the words, heart hammering. Dr. Wilks rubbed circles on her back.

"You can tell me," she whispered. "I know very well how monstrous the Legion can get."

Cass did. It was barely a whisper, but she couldn't shake the feeling it still carried far. It also made the events of that night real, tangible.

And yet, shame glued her last confession to the back of her throat. Because at some point, as they forced her to watch the horrors they inflicted on her fellow prisoners, she'd started to feel glad for her privileged status, how it stopped the legionaries from raping her as well.

She'd almost been grateful to Vulpes Inculta for picking her out of anyone else.

Recalling all of it without the haze of med-x made Cass crave another shot of chems and sick to her stomach again. As Dr. Wilks helped her rinse her mouth and change out of her dirty clothes – and Cass didn't doubt the doctor saw the collection of yellow and brown bruises she'd managed to hide even from Veronica during her check-up in the Lucky 38 – it dawned on her that she couldn't remember any of the women's faces from that night, save Stella's.

The more she tried to picture them, the clearer their features merged into Xin's. Slanted, dark eyes stared at her, louder in their accusation than a thousand curses.

It was two more days before every bone in Cass's body stopped feeling like they'd turned into so much jelly and the craving receded from the forefront of her every thought, leaving a lot of empty space behind just begging to be filled. Two days where she was confined to her room, shaking and cussing, at times even hallucinating people and voices that couldn't be there. Amy – as the doctor insisted Cass called her - had carried off her stash of med-x while she slept, removing Cass's temptation and the chance of immediate relapse at the root.

The doctor and Radio New Vegas were the only people she allowed in her room during that time. Or rather, Amy allowed herself in and stopped the rest of Happy Trails from snooping in, even though sometimes she could hear them whispering on the other side of the door. Cass found her to be reliable if frustrating company. It helped that she never brought up anything Cass had confessed the first night, just examined her bruises once to be sure everything was healing properly.

What didn't help were the other questions Amy threw at her like sharpened sticks.

"To put it plainly?" she said when Cass finally asked her what was twisting her panties into a knot. "For how long you took the med-x, your withdrawal symptoms are way out of scale. It's not exactly my field, but patients with your intake shouldn't be where you are before a month, at least." The doctor put down her clipboard and sat down beside Cass on the edge of the bed. "Are you sure it was only med-x?"

' _What do you want me to tell ya? That the Creep had his tin-can whack-job inject me with a cocktail of fuck-knows-what, then sent me to take down a mafia boss that so happened to be behind the death of everyone I loved? Is that what you wanna hear?!'_

Of course, she didn't say a word of that. House and the Office were the two big No-No alarms blaring in her head, especially after that little chat with the Agent at Lopez's Watering Hole. But if what the doctor was hinting at had any value, chances were the mix had worsened her addiction something fierce.

Was it just a coincidence, or was House's plan to keep her hooked up and obedient with chems, had she proven to be a better errand girl?

After that episode, Amy just spent her time sitting nearby with a book or a thick ream of notes, scribbling and scowling. She'd make small talk when she was in the mood and taught Cass a few exercises to begin putting her shoulder back into working order. That was when she wasn't force-feeding Cass unspecified concoctions foul enough to make her hangover remedy taste like Heaven by comparison. Still, the stuff worked its magic.

"I got my degree in medicine, but I had to branch out over the years," Amy explained when Cass asked what the hell she was drinking. "This here's closest translation would be Bitter Drink. Simple, but correct, as many tribal names are. Now enough fussing. Drink."

Mr. New Vegas more than compensated for the brusque doctor. The radio was a constant source of looping music, advertisement, and information on the developing situation of Freeside and everyone in it, now that the Creep had taken over the reins of the city. With all the gun policies, reconstruction efforts, tin can patrols, and the outpouring of resources, it didn't look to Cass he was about to relinquish them anytime soon.

' _Between Head Mafioso Bitch, her top cronies, and that Major Kieran, the casino's holding cells ought to be burstin' by now.'_ Not that she'd ever seen the place. Still, turned out the latter had been in charge of the NCR troops garrisoning Squatter Town, open secret that they were. All were waiting for their turn, but there still wasn't a date set for the trial.

And if Presley King ended up embroiled in that, once he woke up, well, that was on her too. ' _If he wakes up at all.'_

* * *

The next day, Amy declared her out of the woods, whatever that meant, and Cass left her cramped room for the first time in what felt like a year. Not being forced to lie down like some poor fucker ready to meet his Maker also helped selling to Jed that yes, she was still game for New Canaan, so he better not try to make away with all of her caps by rushing to an early departure the next morning, or she'd unload buckshot right up his ass.

For his part, Masterson wasn't as doom and gloom as she'd figured he'd be. Just too bossy by half.

"You're gonna rest on the back of a cart until Amy says so, you hear me? And God help me if I see you just glance at her bag!"

"Dream on." Cass snorted, matching frown with frown and chortling the treacherous thought as it whispered in her ear. "Even with one arm, I'm the better driver."

"Now, now, the old and sick shouldn't argue. Besides, we all know who's pulling everyone's weight here."

"Shut up, Jane!" Cass and Jed said in unison. It was good to share a laugh after the past few days, but even though it wasn't fair, Cass couldn't help but compare the budding comradery with what she once had with Mahpee, Garland, and Xin, casting a shadow over it all.

She tried to shove those thoughts aside by throwing herself back into the work, only to discover most of it had been already done and dusted in her absence. By nightfall, the goods and provisions were loaded on Happy Trails' two carts and the last of the maps were copied onto paper. Cass herself delivered the contraption to the Miguel & Keller's Pawn Shop, and good riddance.

Jed was set against selling it and the gizmo was plenty useful, but it had to go, and House's bead on her with it. Besides, between Jane and Tom Joad's handiwork, they had all the maps they could possibly need, and the caps she made out of the thing were an extra egg nest for when they reached New Canaan's markets.

By the time she made it back to the compound, Cass had to pause outside the door to catch her breath. Leaning back against the wall, eyes closed in the November chill, she wrapped the duster tighter around herself as best as she could with one hand. The dry whistling of the wind cutting through the streets carried the bubbling chatter from inside to her ears. Tom Joad was on narration-duty, egged on by Jane and rebuking Layla's cutting remarks with scathing irony, even as Jed called out his bullshit every ten seconds or so.

The burning smell of ozone hit her then, but a familiar voice stopped her good hand from drawing. "Looking for trouble?"

"Funny men don't steal lines, cowboy." He stood half in the shadow of the nearby lean-to, geared up to the nines in armor and drab clothes. Cass stole a glance at the empty street. In the distance, a couple of Westside militiamen continued on their patrol, unaware. "How many tin-cans are skulkin' around here?"

"It's just you and me here." He held up his wrist. No Pip-Boy there. "Promise. And sorry I'm late. Things got busy."

' _Busy, yeah.'_ "You ain't inspirin' a lot of trust, you know, hidin' your face like that."

He walked into full view. The coarse beard didn't quite hide the vestiges of half-starved gauntness; his eyes, gleaming pinpricks in the poor light, darted around like cazadores, taking in everything at once and never stopping on her. One hand never left the gun on his hip and Fritz hung from his shoulder. He proffered a bottle with the other, the fake one, holding it by the neck. The label was squeaky clean, the glass slightly warm in her palm.

' _If it ain't Mr. Cork's good shit, I'm a flyin' gecko.'_

"It's on me this time."

Her throat ached for the soothing burn, but she handed it back. "I'll pass. Don't look at me like that: I already had some at dinner. I'm tryin' to cut back a bit." And with House's recent resume, the stuff could be spiked with all the chems in the world.

"Something happened." It wasn't even a question. She gave him her best 'What-do-you-think' look.

"Your boss just showered me with farewell gifts. Turns out, I've got a heart condition."

He paled, nearly missing the pocket and dropping the bottle. "Is it serious?" A step forward, eyes fixed, face intent. Cass watched the whiskey roll to a stop. "Did you get a full diagnosis?"

"Dunno, really. Whackjob spewed a string of medical mumbo-jumbo that flew right over my head. I'm still here, so it can't be that bad." She shrugged, moving away from the house, towards the brahmins' pen. "I just figure I gotta take it easy on a few things from now on, is all. Hey, it's okay. It's not like I didn't have it coming, sooner or later." What was she doing, reassuring him of all things? "If it wasn't my heart, then it was my liver. I've drunk more this past few weeks than I have in months. Good time as any to cut back, and I wanna be sober when the caravan hits the road."

He looked about to say something, then leaned back against the patchwork fence, faking relaxation. His eyes wandered over the snoozing brahmin bulls and the reinforced garage door the loaded carts were locked behind.

"I'm sorry, Cass. I shouldn't have dragged you into this mess in the first place."

"Stop the self-pity party. I've made my bed, now I gotta lie in it." She hid a pained, annoyed grimace behind a shrug, waiting for the cowboy to man up and spill the beans.

Procrastination was the name of his game that night, however. "You've put the caps to good use," he eventually said, "but I figured you'd go back to California. Have you heard? I-15's open for travel again."

' _And what do I have to go back to, exactly?'_ She closed her eyes, then felt his gaze on her. "Yeah yeah, I heard. Crocker announced it over the radio. About fuckin' time, I say. Last time I was there, Freeside was close to starvin'." John grunted, face studiously blank in the moonlight. "Your doing, wasn't it? The road, not the famine."

She'd have bet her last cap on his nod, but not on the dark frown that came with it. "Boone and I – you remember the sniper from Novac? I hired him - but we didn't much more than play witness and vent on a few cazadores later."

In the next couples minutes, with the snoring of cattle as a soundtrack, he regaled her with a mad tale straight out of a pre-war comic book. It culminated in a late night showdown between a nightkin in a wig, her two pet deathclaws, and a super mutant swordsman in power armor who'd impressed the cowboy so much, he even called him by name.

"Rewind a little there." It was her time to grind to a halt, one hand in her hair. "The smokin' mutie in power armor. What's his name again you say?"

He gave her an odd look. "Marcus. What, you know him too?"

Cass whistled. "Holy shit, that must be him! Marcus. I mean, _the_ Marcus!" She rolled her eyes at his blank look, but she couldn't stop grinning. "That's the Chosen One's super mutant buddy! Dad used to tell me stories 'bout him and the big fuckin' sword he carried. Cut the mother of all bloody swathes up n' down the coast with that in his time!"

"I can believe that. He knew how to use the thing," he said in a tight voice. "Slew two deathclaws in as many strikes, and he beheaded another for dinner before that." Was the cowboy envious, or just angsting over his own grudging respect? The thought made her grin widen a bit.

"No shit, John! Dad had it he bisected Frank motherfuckin' Horrigan with that thing, power armor and all!" Realization flashed like lightning, hounded at its heels by horror. She jabbed a finger in his face, eyes narrow. "You didn't start shit or anythin' with him, did ya?"

The cowboy raised his hands, taking a step back. "I had a gun at my head most of the time."

"That's not a no."

He had the gall to smirk, stiff as it was. "It's not a yes either."

"John..."

"It's top-secret, sorry."

She sighed, the onset of another headache building behind her eyes. "Go figure you'd try and put a bullet into every mutie you see." She shook her head, but again, her lips curled upwards. "Still, you're here. You wouldn't be if you'd really tried somethin'. Just wait until I tell the others. They ain't gonna believe it."

That was when it all rushed back to her, hitting in the gut again, almost like the day the Rangers' report came in at the Outpost. For a moment, so engrossed was she in the resurgence of a childhood legend, she'd been blown back to the good old days with a vengeance, sharing stories around a campfire, the darkness so thick it made her feel like they were alone in the world, but for each other's company.

She hid it all from John and his burrowing gaze by sipping some water, forcing it down when her stomach churned at the intrusion. Her head was pounding like a tribal drum again. She pushed away from the fence, done and through with waiting. "I'm really glad you didn't kill a livin' legend- "

"Wait." He had her good wrist in a demanding grip before she'd taken another step, and he didn't let go when she glared at his hand, then at him. "The night at your caravan's graves, I made you a promise. It's alright if you don't remember, it was a rough day and, well, –"

"- I was royally shitfaced. You can say it, it's the truth." _'And I nearly blew my brains out too'._ A shiver ran down her spine. "Don't think for a moment I'm holdin' you to that. Just forget all about it, 'kay?" He let go of her wrist, but her feet were rooted to the spot. Her chuckle was too high even to her own ears. "I almost had Gloria, you know."

He nodded. "She's in a cell in the Lucky 38. I've seen her, just today. She's miserable, and things aren't looking up for her."

"Good. I hope she rots there 'till she's gray and toothless. Bitch."

"I thought you wanted her dead."

"Oh, I still fuckin' do, don't worry," she growled. "I was so close. A little less blabbin' and a little more shootin', maybe she'd be plasma goo right now, and I wouldn't be jostlin' this fuckin' shoulder around. But I've had some time to think, last couple of days." Feverish thoughts as she sweated off all the punishment she put her body through, but still, thoughts. "The radio says he's puttin' her on trial, some big show. He'll drag her through the dirt face first and squeeze her for all she's worth. Caps, influence, blackmail, power, whatever. She'll never live down the humiliation and I can only imagine what it'll do to her family. She'll suffer; they all will. Maybe that'll be enough."

John was as silent and still as the Vault Dweller's statue in Shady Sands, his thoughts so loud she fancied she could hear them rattling against the inside of his skull. She knew she was lying about that last bit, and John's face said he knew as much: no punishment would ever be enough, the pain Gloria caused was just too great and raw… but maybe, over time, the knowledge some punishment was doled out would allow the wound to scab over, and she could start to heal.

"I'll always carry 'em with me," she said. _'Carry the knowledge I sent 'em to die.'_ "Mahpee, Garland, and Xin, they were my family. That'll never change. But they wouldn't want me to rot away, pinin' over some revenge fantasy I can't get." And if she was honest with herself, she was eager to get going again. A spark of that old enthusiasm she thought dead and buried with her caravan was crawling back, turning a half-assed ticket out of the Mojave into something else.

It was an ember that burned on guilt, and yet she couldn't bring herself to close her fist and snuff it out for good. Didn't really know if she could. The road had called to her almost two decades back and willy-nilly, she'd stuck to it ever since.

Light stopped haloing through the closed shutters of the compound's ground floor. A yawn was building up in her belly, but it looked like the chupacabra had stolen John's voice again.

"Thanks for stopping by, John," she said, actually meaning some of it this time, "but I really gotta go now. We're leavin' before dawn, and it's a long road to New Canaan."

"I know." Cass winced at his flat tone. Of course he did. Fucking Pip-Boy. "The Van Graffs didn't work alone."

Her ears began to ring so loud, she was deaf to conscious thought, but not the pain in her shoulder: it spread out in phantom stabs, sharp enough to steal her breath. Something inside her awoke, coiling around her stomach again and pushing the words out.

"You goddamn sure about that?"

He produced a thin folder from under his armor, holding it like a live bomb, or a poker card. "I've got all the evidence in the world. Right from the source."

"Everythin' alright here, lass? This chap ain't buggin' yeh?"

Tenuous light streamed out an open window on the second floor, framing Tom Joad's broad shoulders and hoary head between the shutters. Cass waved a hand up at him, too dazed to snap out at the sneaky, meddlesome coot. How long had he been listening in again?

"I'm fine, Joad. Just talkin' to a friend." Was that what the cowboy was? A friend? "Go back inside and give your old bones the rest they deserve. Tomorrow's a long day."

His glare shifted from her and the folder to rake John over the proverbial coals, but he retreated behind the shutters, though she didn't hear him leave any more than she'd heard him approach. Silence lingered thick as concrete for a clockless moment before she plucked the folder from John's hands.

The paper was grainy and unblemished, delicate and heavy against her fingertips. Good quality stuff, her mind provided to fill the lull of hesitation. Need and curiosity slugged it out with caution in some corner of her brain, but it was never really a match. She untied the string, and the truth poured out, Alice McLafferty's name stamped black on white all over it.

Her first thought was _'I knew it!'._ The timing of that offer, back at the Outpost, smelled off from a mile away even back then, but vindication, if that it was even it, tasted like ashes in her mouth. She read, flipped pages over, and read again, aware of the passage of time only in the measure of the wind picking up and trying to scatter the incriminating transcriptions between the two women. At last, she was staring at the blank back of the last page, and her eyes lifted to find John hadn't moved an inch.

"You said you got all this shit from the source? Where is she?"

"Come, I'll take you to her."

* * *

She left the compound again, exhaustion suborned to stubborn purpose. Her mind was a spider web, each line on those papers congealed in place, each signature a knot, all waiting for a good rattle and a spark to catch fire and crumble. One of the militiamen on sentry duty at the gate told her they'd bar it at midnight, no exceptions, so she better get back before then. She nodded and was waved through with a last warning to watch the skies.

The moon was still three-fourths out, dousing the ruins with just enough light to make out shapes and shadows a few steps in every direction. Some fifty meters away from Westside's perimeter lights, she turned about, searching this way and that. Ozone burned her nostrils; John materialized to her left, cocking his head towards deeper into the city's ruins.

"Why go invisible again?"

"The guards would have asked questions; they didn't see me come in." He shrugged, staring ahead. "Simpler that way."

Her bullshit-detector blared, but Cass let it run. All around them, the hollowed-out shells of buildings and cars amplified the wind's whistles to screams. The impending danger didn't mean every corner and blindspot couldn't hide all sorts of dangers, from wildlife to half-bonkers addicts eager to shiv her for the clothes on her back, to the fucking Legion on a night-stroll for all she knew. Even at that hour, lasers flashed in the night and the on-and-off chatter of automatic fire echoed far away to the south, where the NCR and the Fiends had been butting heads for days.

"How far is it?" she asked, peering into an empty doorway. "Weather's turnin' to shit faster than I like it." Should she go back and warn Jed to pull the brahmins into the shelter? She shook her head. Layla had sentry duty tonight, and the Westside militia was already making rounds to warn people. _'They'll be fine.'_

"Relax," the cowboy said, walking with purpose, "the sandstorm won't be on us before another hour or so. Mr. House said it won't last long. Here."

It took her a moment to recognize the sandblasted shape of a manhole after John dislodged it. A pit of darkness spread below, the moonlight scarcely touching the first rusted rung. A dry, fetid smell wafted up, making Cass recoil.

"Really? The sewers?"

He gave her a 'Where-else' look. "Trust me," the cowboy said, fastening a sleek contraption of lenses over his eyes and a respirator around the lower half of his face. It made him look like a comic-book villain, muffling his words to a stuffy mutter, "she's liking it less than you do."

One sniff and she let him fasten a gas mask around her face. When the last strap was secured, he dropped in first, leaving her to stare dumbly at the hole. With a faint _clack_ and a _hiss_ , a glow stick blossomed in John's hands. Casting one last look around, she holstered her gun and followed in. The rungs were treacherous things with only one good arm; she almost slipped midway, then decided enough was enough and hopped down the couple feet between her and the slimy walkway. Grunting at her shoulder's protests, she brushed away the cowboy's steadying hand and accepted the glow stick instead, holding it close to her chest as she drew the 9mm with the other.

He guided her down a path of side tunnels carpeted with solidified, humid waste, following marks and scratches left on the grimy walls. A thin stream of sewage traveled parallel to them here and there, pooling in puddles where condensation dripped from moss and cracks on the ceiling, or where rubble clogged the way. It didn't take long – about a dozen steps and a good, closer look at some feral ghouls half-melted to ashes - before she was profoundly grateful for the gas mask and the sterile air it provided.

"How long has she been down here?"

"Around midday today," he said in a throaty mutter. Cass almost felt pity at the thought of bearing the stench for almost twelve hours, then remembered who they were talking about. "I brought her here right after Mr. House finished interrogating her."

"Her people will be turnin' up every rock n' bush, tryin' to find her." Then, after a moment's hesitation, "How many dead?"

"None. Just some drugged wine and a stun gun," he grunted, back stiffening. He mumbled to himself something about a kid not being eaten alive; she wasn't one-hundred-percent sure about that, due to all the sloshing sounds and the buzzing of flies around them, filling their bellies with the rotting flesh of the cowboy's clean-up prey and riddling them with pale worms.

John briefly examined a wall, then took another turn. Cass followed on his heels, the walkway only wide enough for one. It was a while, and what felt like a kilometer downwards, before he spoke again.

"I kidnapped her from the penthouse in the Ultra-Luxe," he said, warming to the topic with each word. "You can't imagine the places you can walk right in with a tuxedo and a mask. It does help a bit when the second top dog thinks he owes you a huge debt for resolving a sensitive issue with his main dinner course." The cowboy shook his head and chuckled, privy to some joke that flew over Cass's head. "I'll have to ask Mr. House for a copy of the tapes from the camera in the kitchen. The look on Mortimer's face when he realized Boone wasn't in cold storage must have been something else. Anyway, Mr. House's keeping Captain Pappas and the Military Police at bay with a low-key investigation for now." A shrug. "I guess Crimson's people are too busy getting to know their old-new boss again to really care, even if some know she's gone missing."

"You've lost me at 'dinner course'. What do you mean you put the sniper in cold storage? And who's Crimson's new boss, that Jamison boy?" She winced as the echo bounced up and down the tunnel. John stopped and held up a fist, then pushed her into an alcove when distant gunfire answered. She found herself pressed at an awkward angle against bars nobody had bothered to clean in a couple of centuries, ankle-deep in solid layers upon layers of sewage and animal waste.

Fighting down her revulsion and a touch of panic, she smacked the cowboy on the shoulder pinning her. The blue lenses of his goggles glared down at her, catching the glow stick's light at an angle; he put one finger on his gasmask filter, then pushed further down the tunnel, vanishing in the dark as she righted herself.

"Asshole," she growled after him once back on the walkway, kicking muck and shit off her boots. Holding the glow stick as high as she could – a bitch and a half, with her arm in a sling – she trudged onwards, eyes squinting and ears straining.

The tunnels flashed weakly with the glow of lasers. Cass quickened her pace. The cowboy's footprints were easy to follow in the soft sludge, at least. Another turn and it wasn't long before a flashing light peeked in through a metal door to the left, dousing the half-melted corpses redecorating the place in a bluish hue. Burn marks large and small ate into the rounded walls and pavement. Cass awkwardly stepped over a man's torso, legs reduced to stumps and a cracked brahmin skull still adorning the leaking chunk of his head.

The cowboy was getting chummy with a Securitron. Glowing-hot barrels poked out from the tin-can's prong-arms, its tire slick with muck and Fiend gore.

"You're already here. Good." He kicked a body off the walkway; it _cracked_ and _thudded_ and then _slapped_ to a stop against another, a mess of limbs at weird angles that had her look away. "Sounds like they got lost on the way back to Vault 3, or the NCR cut off their retreat," he said. A clinking rattle echoed softly after him, but if the cowboy heard it, he didn't show it.

Only when the Securitron started trundling away did Cass approach, eyeing the swaying tin-can until it was only a scratching echo. "Cass –"

"You said you were alone. No Pip-Boy, no tin cans, no House listenin' in! What was that, some desert hallucination?"

"I said I was alone in _Westside_!" Was the asshole rolling his eyes behind those goggles? "Jesus, Cass. She had to be guarded to avoid some idiot stumbling in on her, or worse. Think it if she escaped!" The rattle echoed again, louder, shorter. The sign above the door was visible every other moment, the grime wiped off it by fingermarks to reveal the words 'Vacuum Pump Station' _._

John tossed another glow stick deeper into the tunnel."Look, it's rolled out of town. It's just you, me, and her now."

Cass's feet tried to betray her again, drawn to the open door and what, no, who was promised inside. She caught herself short of the entrance and John standing there, like some faceless bellboy.

"Why are you really doin' all this?"

"She can hear us from here."

"And who's she gonna tell?"

John's whistling sigh echoed like a grenade. Deflating a bit, he removed the goggles and raked a hand through his messy hair.

"I just want to do you a solid, just the once, before you move on with your life." John's eyes flashed when the metallic rattle cut him off with a sharp note. "You're the only friend I have, Cass. Is that really so hard to believe?"

Her gut had one answer, her head another. The exhaustion bleeding through his voice and posture told a story of their own. _'He's not House._ ' No, the cowboy just worked for the Creep, selling his soul to earn what information he thought he needed. When push came to shove, she had done the same, swallowing hook, line, and sinker.

"No, maybe it's not."

Alice McLafferty hung by her manacled wrists from a pulley looped around two pipes on the ceiling, arms stretched taut above her head and her knees buckling under her own weight. The manacles rattled against the hook as her bare feet scraped and slipped, searching for purchase. She remained upright for less than a couple of heartbeats before sagging again with a hoarse groan. She rounded on Cass, a blindfold tied across her eyes.

"Help," she croaked through chapped lips. "Please, h-help me."

Cass stepped forward, then to the side. Heat surged down her limbs from her belly, leaving them feeling numb. McLafferty's voice failed, but her head craned, following as she could. She winced when Cass touched the blindfold. Her fingers stilled, then she lifted the cloth.

McLafferty blinked furiously, shaking her head. Cass bent to be at eye-level with her and waited. She waited until McLafferty's eyes narrowed in confusion, then widened in recognition.

"You. I – I see." She gave a rattling breath, then tried to stand again, failing completely. "I suppose –"

"Shut up."

What surprised Cass, but only to a point, was her own calmness. The screaming anger, the urge to repay pain with pain, those she'd vented out on Gloria. McLafferty cut a pitiful figure in her soiled suit, broken and defanged. How the mighty had fallen.

She recognized the look in John's eyes. They were flat with McLafferty's doom. To him, it'd already happened. He'd looked the same way at Benny when he condemned the dandy man to his agony, leaving the humane thing to do to her. If she'd a mirror now, she was kinda sure her own wouldn't look much different.

Their roles now reversed, Cass was tempted to do the same. John wouldn't step in the way she had. Dehydration would get McLafferty eventually, slow and lonely, or something else would before that, making it quicker.

It was a sweet thought. She put it to rest by squeezing the trigger.

The gunshot's echo faded. Cass holstered her gun and waited for the ceiling to open, or her ghosts to pat her on the shoulder for getting back at the bitch. Neither happened. The cowboy opened the manacles and McLafferty collapsed into a still heap, blood trickling down the hole in her forehead, drenching the blindfold and pooling under her eyelids.

Cass stared into the vacant eyes, lips pulling in a tired grimace. She watched dispassionately as John produced a body bag from a locker and rolled it out beside the body. Only when the zipper sealed McLafferty into the dark canvas did Cass feel like she could breathe properly again.

"You feel better?" he asked after he was done.

' _Do I?'_ "Ask me another time." ' _Did she have a family?'_ Cass shook her head. "She won't be pullin' any more shit out of her hat now, so there's that."

He sat halfway on some gutted console, opened the bottle with a flip of his thumb, and chugged down a few gulps. Cass accepted it without a word, using the familiar burn as an anchor to steady herself.

The cowboy chuckled dryly, one leg dangling. "You know, she thought I was with the Office at first. Me. Funny how this business goes."

"Yeah, hilarious," she said. "We should go back."

"Sandstorm's probably raging upstairs right about now." John beckoned for the bottle. Right, she'd almost forgotten about the sandstorm. If one could trust anything, trust fickle timing.

"So, what happens now?"

"I guess we wait it out, then I'll take you back to Westside and you leave at dawn." He took a sip, staring bitterly at the body bag. "I'll drag the body back to the Lucky 38 and take a shower while MacPayne cleans her up for the last act, then I'll plant the body somewhere that screams 'Mortimer ordered this'. Might take a nap while the Securitrons apprehend the clique of murderous cannibals. Long story short, the House always wins."

* * *

Fresh dirt crunched under her boots, mixing with the congealed sludge of the sewers. Dust motes danced thickly in the air whenever Westside's perimeter lights swept around. Would have danced right into her nose too, but a spare bandana kept them out well enough. It did little for the stench, foul enough she seriously considered dipping into the brahmin trough before finally calling it a night.

A blind man could see the cowboy was brooding over his goodbye, forming and swallowing words with the same breath. Bad at cards, and a worse poker face. Maybe it was the whiskey, maybe she was just stupid, but her tongue moved faster than her brain.

"Come along with us." The cowboy's head snapped up. "We could use another pair of hands without too much gray hair. Jed tells me Zion's beautiful, and New Canaan's nowhere as fucked up as Vegas. From there, who knows. You can start fresh, away from this fuckin' desert. Or at least get a breather. Nobody's told ya, but you kinda look like shit."

"Nobody but the mirror," he said. "I think I'd like that, but - I can't just let go." The cowboy shoved his hands in his pockets, but kept his head high. "I have to know who I am. Who I was before Benny shot me, so I can become that man again. This past month, I look back and – Cass, this can't be all there is to me. I can't be just a gun for others to point at a target."

"Then be someone else. Don't wait to be spoon-fed. That never ends well."

He looked away. "It's not that easy."

"No shit. Nothing worthwhile ever is, cowboy, but you gotta start somewhere."

A faint smile gleamed on his face, making him look vulnerable. "He has a lead, Cass. A pretty strong one, from the sound of it. Next time we see each other, maybe I'll know my real name."

"Can't you see House's leadin' you by the nose?" She was too drained to know whether she was sad for him or just angry at his blindness. "You get your hands dirty, he keeps his squeaky clean with the NCR. And when you'll be tapped out, he'll toss you away like a used condom. You know that, John. Look around you; he's playin' everyone like puppets."

"I know." Emotion flashed on his face, too quick to be named. "Believe me, I do, but he'll keep his word. He has to."

"What's stoppin' him from lyin'? He seems pretty okay with you being his gun."

"Then how do you know your father really went north?" The harshness of his comeback hit less than the dormant doubts it reawakened. She'd pitched in with the Mastersons on House's farewell words, tossed in as if in afterthought. For all she knew, he'd made that up on the spot as payback for flipping him the bird.

"I don't," she admitted. "Not one-hundred percent."

"Neither do I, but we don't really have any option other than trust him and hope, do we?" He squeezed her working shoulder. "Promise me you'll take care of yourself."

"You do that too, cowboy."

The night rippled around him. His hand lingered for another moment, and then he was gone.


	24. 21) For Want of a Courier

**Missing in Action 21) For Want of a Courier**

 _I'm back. I never left. My thanks to_ _ **ScrimshawPen**_ _(doubly so for the early feedback with the end of this chapter)_ _ **, DmCrebel25, Paladin Bailey, Aegon Blacksteel/ The Night Haunter, PartyPat22 (x3 +** the editing to come!), **HelveticaStandard, The Desert Dancer, WilSquare, Winding Warpath, Colstrent (x11),**_ _and_ _ **Jacob Sailer (x3)**_ _for their reviews, support and feedback._

 _Big News! Wasteland Legends has now got official art by_ _ **Sonnizzleart**_ _on Deviantart. Both covers for MiA and TTL, as well as a portrait of John, can be found on the author's profile on Deviantart. I'd share the links here, but Fanfiction Dot Net is a bit of a spoiled lady in that regard. Go give the author some love: it's even her birthday today!_

 _Also, if you haven't read the one-shot_ _ **Wasteland Legends: Conception**_ _, I_ _strongly_ _recommend you do so before reading this chapter. Most of the chapter can and does stand on its own, but you may miss out on some of the context and background in a certain scene later in this chapter. You'll know which one when you see it._

 _So, the grenade launcher is locked and loaded. This is the chapter that started it all, now over two years ago. Enjoy_

* * *

John scratched the vanishing scar under his right ear, trying to feel the tiny chip the Auto-Doc had implanted again. People flowed and ebbed around the palm tree in whose shadow he sat, pretending to be preoccupied with their business and revelry. They were all studying him, and they thought he didn't notice. They sized him up, from the pressed navy blue suit House had given him, to the jagged scar across his left temple and the lack of a visible weapon on his person.

They examined him and the polaroid picture he held between thumb and forefinger, considering their chances and weighing their options, waiting for an opportunity. He wouldn't give them an opening.

Knowing that those thoughts stemmed from his own psychotic delusions helped, but not by much.

McPayne said it would bleed out of his system over time, as long as he took his lithium – foul thing - and cut back on the Stealth Boys. Over a dozen in less than ten days was just murder on the psyche. The Mr. Orderly also prescribed him with plenty of rest to avoid collapsing again, like he had a few days ago after returning from planting McLafferty's body in the Ultra Lux's cold room.

He was lucky it hadn't happened in the field, the doctor had said.

They agreed on that, at least. Being blown to smithereens by some xenophobe gun-nuts because he had a blackout within their artillery's range wasn't that much better than being out-played by mutants.

The prospect of having so much time on his hands but nothing meaningful to invest it in – Freeside's reconstruction could use a cybernetic hand, but apparently that didn't count as 'rest' – was kind of scary. It'd brought him back to those days, weeks, at Doc Mitchell's house, with nothing to do but sleeping, reading, and talking to the good doctor.

To John's shock and frustration, House had confirmed the Mr. Orderly's orders and postponed the scouting mission to Nellis Air Force Base.

" _Diplomacy is the better course of action for now. Rest. You've earned some time off, and it's time I kept my side of the bargain."_

John looked up from the picture; the same massive hotel sign towering in its background was just a short walk down the New Vegas Boulevard. A maelstrom of half-understood emotions nailed John's back to the bench and locked his knee joints.

Did he even deserve the chance at happiness the picture promised, after all the suffering he had caused? _'But at least I prevented more. The Van Graffs and McLafferty would have never stopped. I did – I did what had to be done. Yes.'_

After lusting for Cass? _'I didn't know. I didn't_ know. _'_

After all the blood he must have spilled in the past, all in the name of a monstrous cause? _'I said no. I left!'_

Could he really have a family, after destroying so many?

One of House's favorite statements came to mind.

" _Regret is a crutch, a justification for the meek to wallow in their misery and incompetence. Learn from your mistakes, move on, and don't look back."_

John pocketed the picture. If he did nothing else before disappearing again in the shadows where House kept him, he owed her an explanation for why he'd gone missing months before.

It was like grasping at straws, but the resolution gave him something to latch on to. After a moment, he stood.

One step solidified his resolve. The next was a bit easier. He negotiated his way through the thinning flow of people at the south-west end of the Strip. The NCR Embassy, an unassuming one-story compound crawling with MP, and some of the Strip's lower-key establishments – a sign shop, a church, one of the greenhouses and cattle pens run by the Omertas' employees – passed him by on either side.

Even at this hour, the walkways and tarmac were pockmarked by alien sights of euphoria, inebriation, and despair that were the Strip's life force, mixed with the cries of street-food vendors and more. John glared at anyone who got too close, but most either didn't notice, or couldn't.

The gear-shaped Vault door atop the hotel neon sign couldn't be the real thing, he decided as he stopped under it. No way two steel beams could bear the weight of the real thing and keep it balanced several meters off the ground.

"Welcome to Vault 21, the real Vault experience," a protectron painted in Vault Tec's blue and yellow chimed, waving a clawed hand as John walked into the lobby. Soft, ambient music enveloped him. He sighed in relief as the door closed between him and the crowds of the Strip, but checked his surroundings in the same breath.

At this time in the afternoon, the lobby was empty, save for the receptionist idly typing away at a terminal at the front desk, just beside the ramp leading down to the proper Vault entrance. Vault memorabilia, souvenirs, trinkets, and a legion of _21_ stickers of all kinds decorated every available surface, some of them quite mundane, others outright broken. Several mannequins wearing Vault suits took up most of a wall, somewhat empty shelves gaping behind them.

He stared at the one-piece suits for long moments. He tried to imagine himself wearing one growing up and as an adolescent, and failed.

"Hey there, stranger!" The receptionist, a blonde woman in a Vault suit, peeked around the terminal. She beckoned at him, both hands in sight and empty. "Welcome to the finest Vault hotel in the whole world! I'm Sarah, Sarah Weintraub, and this is my Vault!"

Thankfully, only the name and the hair color matched the other Sarah he knew. Weintraub was very pale, almost sickly so, and her heavy makeup didn't hide the faint lines around her eyes and mouth.

"Come on, come on in! You can't be shy wearing a two-piece like that! First time here? I'd remember seeing you before."

He approached, pretending to check the collection of bobble-heads in a display case behind the counter.

"Sort of. I've heard of this place," he said before the silence spiraled into awkwardness. _'First time in a Vault that's not a death trap, yeah,'_ was on the tip of his tongue, but that wasn't really true, was it?

It was no use, however. His previous Vault crawls didn't spark any recollection, and all the blues and yellows and logos in the souvenir shop didn't either.

" _Vault 117. Does the name sound familiar? It's just north of what used to be Baltimore. You were born there, on June 3_ _rd_ _, 2242."_

"I bet you have! Do you want a room, or are you here for a Vault suit? You better hurry and pick one your size, because they're going away like hot cakes!"

"Actually, no. I'm looking for someone." It was like his throat had turned into jelly and the rest of his body into lead. Only his left arm, the artificial limb, still felt like it belonged to him.

"All righty, daddy-o?" Rouge lips smiled. "There are many someones here."

"Joana Ross? I was told she waits tables here."

"Oh, the new waitress?" Weintraub's smile morphed into an appreciative grin. The look in her eyes rang alarm bells in his head for different reasons than the usual. "Lucky girl. She's on shift at the diner right now, but I think she'll find a moment for you, Mr -?"

He almost said 'Doe' on reflex. It was the on tip of his tongue before he bit it back.

"Ross," John breathed out the alien name. "Johnathan Ross. Joana's my wife."

* * *

"Your birth name is Jonathan Ross," House carried on like he was reading from a grocery list. John sat rooted to the armchair, the Boomers' situation and Mr. Cork's drink at his elbow equally forgotten. "You grew up there and were recruited in the Enclave's armed forces, or whatever remains of them on the East Coast. You rose through the ranks, became an officer, and then you deserted."

' _No. No!'_ It took an inordinate amount of time for what he was hearing to sink in. His heart rate spiked, and so many questions fired down his neurons he himself could barely discern half, the rest degrading into a tangled mess of words. The Enclave, the mass-murdering boogeymen? Why would he ever join them? Where was Baltimore? Did he have parents, a family? Had they told House about his birthday?

Did Doc Mitchell know more than he let on when he called him a John Doe? Or was it just a coincidence?

Complex articulation was quite beyond him, however. "How - Where did you learn all this, sir?"

One of the several Securitrons flanking his employer's screen rolled forward, holding a small chip no bigger than John's pinkie's chipped nail in its disproportionate claw-fingers. It dropped into John's open palm. Such a little thing.

"The Auto-Doc dug this out of you some time ago. It's an identification chip," House echoed what a corner of John's mind vaguely recognized. The faint, scattered recollection, more than the feather-light weight of the chip, cemented House's words as truth and reality.

Hysterical laughter bubbled up in his chest, but his throat was too tight. Forget becoming the better man he must have been once: that 'better man' was an accomplice to the worst genocidal maniacs in recent history! One of their soldiers. No, worse: an officer! He had held a position of authority in their hierarchy, entrusted with the responsibility of decision-making.

"It was implanted in your right mastoid process. It's that bone protrusion just behind your ear. Quite clever," House explained, but John was only half-listening, hands in his hair. "Not clever enough to elude my Auto-Doc."

A minute ticked by, then another. "Are you -" John swallowed, the tiny chip filling his vision, "Are you sure -"

"I am, Mr. Ross." The name-switch took the ground away from under his feet, draining away the rest of his denial.

House's expressive pixel eyes echoed the flatness of his voice. "As I said, it's an identification chip. I'll admit, however, that it was your wife who gave context to the information and filled in most of the gaps."

"My -" Wife. As in, family. Vows. Faithfulness. The words were like a slap to the face and a sucker punch wrapped into one and shoved down his throat. "My wife? I'm - married?" Where – where was his wedding ring? Had the Khans stolen that?

"She's the reason you defected, of course," House said, his tone the kind John had heard in passing from parents scolding their children. "You see, Mr. Ross, she was born a wastelander. Impure genetic stock by the Enclave's standards, unlike you. They would have never condoned your relationship, so you fled with her before they killed her. A few months ago, the two of you arrived in Vegas and settled down."

Settling down. Home. Overwhelmed, John's mind latched onto the only theoretically familiar concept. "Do you –" Of course House knew. Damn him and his love for his own voice! "Where do – where is she? Where does she live?"

"I finally found her a few days ago. She was scraping by in North Vegas," House said. The slums. Surrounded by the luxury of the Lucky 38's penthouse, self-loathing was a knife twisting in John's kidney. The armrest cracked and splintered in his grip, cybernetic fingers digging. "That's no longer the case. She now waits tables at Vault 21 for a good wage. She has a roof over her head and three meals a day."

Something hot and ugly flashed in John's chest. "Why didn't -"

"Your tone, Mr. Ross. Control yourself." John gritted his teeth, jaw stiff. "I've offered her the best of the Lucky 38's hospitality, but she prefers to earn her keep with honest work. It's an admirable attitude."

* * *

She was taking an order when he walked into the cafeteria. Her back to the door, John recognized the color of her work dress first – the same she wore in the picture – then the practical bun keeping her hair up, exposing a lithe neck. She was taller than the picture suggested, but svelte. Much to John's relief, her bare legs and hands showed none of the familiar signs of malnutrition or abuse.

The words, a simple greeting, remained stuck in his throat, but there was a Protectron with a bowtie and apron talking to him. She peeked over her shoulder at the sound, thinking he was a new client.

A thin, beautiful face, but even cosmetics couldn't fully conceal the heavy bags under her eyes. Her smile wavered. She blinked, and the notepad slipped from her hands.

"J-Johnathan?"

' _Speak, idiot. That's you.'_ "Hey, Joana," were the first words to his wife, a stranger.

After a moment, she started towards him. "'Hey'?" she echoed. The bottom of John's stomach fell. Her lower lip was quivering. "'Hey'?! T-that's – You were gone for months! Until a few days ago, I - I thought you were dead!"

Any other sound but her voice was sucked out of the cafeteria. Even the Protectron fell silent. John's paranoia urged him to watch any of the patrons for sudden moves, but Joana was closer, ever closer, her eyes rheumy.

"I'm sorry," he tried, the few words he'd rehearsed slipping through his grasp. "I – I had an accident, got amnesia. I – I didn't remember you. Not until today." The lie came out easily. Joana recoiled and stopped. Just a step, and he could close the distance left between them. Her eyes found the scar across his left temple, the old knife scar that refused to heal properly and that Doc Mitchell once said was only aggravated by the two bullets Benny had put into him.

She reached out and her fingers traced it. Her palm was warm against his clean-shaved cheek, save only for the thin, colder band of her wedding ring.

"I'm sorry," he said again, the silence too much to bear. "I shouldn't have left. I –"

"You're here now." She pulled him into a hug, burying her face in the crook of his neck. "You came back. I thought you were dead, Johnathan. I missed you. I missed you so much."

He hesitated, not knowing what to do with his arms. Then slowly, carefully, he wrapped them around her, pressing her closer, feeling more than seeing her body against his. His shoulder was getting damp.

"I lost my wedding ring. They stole it."

She laughed softly into his shoulder, a broken sound John thought sounded like relief and desperation.

"It's just a ring. Just a stupid, stupid ring. You and I, that's all we need. We're all that matters."

* * *

Marcus stabbed his sword through the fresh snow and the packed ground underneath, then sat down on the fallen trunk.

The wood _creaked_ and _cracked_ under the added weight of Jacob's armor, the indentations left from his previous vigils widening as he made himself comfortable. For four times he'd answered the wordless summon of green, slit eyes blinking in the underbrush. Four times he'd followed large paw-prints in the freshly-fallen snow and come to this clearing since the night John Cassidy left for parts unknown.

Every time, he'd waited for hours on end, but the Guardian never poked his snout out.

Marcus put the cigar cutter back and brought the zippo John Cassidy had left him as a parting gift up to the cigar. He had precious few left, what with trade with the Westside-Ashton Co-Op grounded for the past few weeks. His thumb dwarfed the flint, but practice made perfect and he lit it on the third try, savoring the flavor.

"I know you're here. Come out and say your piece."

The rustling of wind through evergreen foliage answered him, bringing a fresh smell from the south: it tasted like dew and rich soil and old honey he remembered from Before. Considering it was autumn, the springtime scent was hard to wrap his head around; and yet, under the thin film of snow, the forest was more vibrant than it had ever been.

The land was changing, Marcus mused. Almost as if trying to keep up with the pace of recent events.

The wind shifted, wafting the cigar's smoke away from his face; it carried the faint clangor of hammered metal from Jacobstown, instead. What few craftmutants lived in the community were hard at work at bullet presses, workbenches, and forges, scaring the bighorners and preparing the town for the worst case scenario.

Marcus looked around again, then up. La Madre mountain, the closest peak to Mt. Charleston, was barely a faint outline in the moonlight, but the peaks were no longer a secluded haven. Only two days after returning from Black Mountain with Tabitha and the secessionists, one of the patrols had spotted activity and tracks on the single beaten path leading up its side and to the disused Enclave bunker there.

After years of just local fauna, the Co-Op's caravans, and the occasional straying cazadore, nightstalker, or giant mantis, the world had turned its attention to Jacobstown again.

Marcus willed the mountain to reveal its secrets. Dr. Henry was as grouchy as he was tightlipped, too old by human standards to be really afraid and very aware of how much his expertise and collaboration was worth to Marcus. Before retreating, Keene and his squad – the only nightkin he trusted with Stealth-Boys after only a couple of weeks of treatment – had spotted a dozen humanoid figures guarding the access cave to the bunker. From afar, he could only distinguish their energy guns and white full body armor.

Privately, Keene shared with him the suspicion that the robots had spotted his group as well. Thankfully, they weren't fired upon.

That could just mean the kin weren't close enough to trigger the robots. Their presence alone was enough for Marcus to break open the emergency stockpile, a sizeable stash of supplies and military gear accumulated over the years.

At first, Ashton and New Hopeville had sold Jacobstown their scavenged surplus; after the bombs cracked the earth and blackened the sky, the supplies had come through the burgeoning Westside-Ashton Co-Op and the regular scavenger teams Marcus sent over the mountains the long way around and into the Divide, following Kana's information.

He'd always pick threat de-escalation over open warfare, but Broken Hills and the fate of Goris's brood had taught him some battles just had to be fought. There were fates worse than death and exile if they lost.

Still, he fervently hoped the preparations alone would deter the robots' masters from trying anything stupid. Slim chance, if the robots were some of the Office's new tools, or Mr. House's. The rest was out of his hands, but he was ready to face what he couldn't change.

' _Who are you?'_ Marcus wondered again. He rose and began retracing his steps in the snow. The Guardian had plenty of time already. He'd long grown tired and wary of the dog's games and penchant for drama.

" _ **Grave. Robbers."**_

The Guardian barred his path like he'd always been there, a wall of fur and teeth and plotting closer in size to a yao-guai than a German Shephard. Patches of grey fur were burned off, or grew spottily around vicious scars all over his body. Like the snakes whose DNA the Master had spliced into him at the Cathedral so long ago, the Guardian had grown since the last time Marcus had seen him, almost forty years before in the depths of the Mariposa Military Base, at the disastrous confrontation with that crazed mutant psyker, Melchior the Magnificent.

"You know them."

 **" _Danger."_**

Once fluid and powerful with the Compulsion, the dog's thoughts now echoed in Marcus's mind like a rattling wheeze. The dog's eyes shifted to Marcus's shoulder, and he paused.

His hand had closed around the sword's hilt on its own, his body and mind poised to strike on reflex, ready to cleave the Guardian in two. The familiar texture of the grip against his palm puzzled him. Even when the Guardian had spoken to Aki through Melchior at Mariposa, Marcus had been unable to even think about striking the dog, much less acting on it. He had had to kill Melchior instead, halfway through the Guardian's speech.

That was the nature of the Compulsion. The Master's last command that turned the mutt Dogmeat into the Guardian of the Legacy also stopped any mutant who'd ever been touched by the Master's mind from even thinking of harming the dog.

But now, he could. It was like a weight around his wrists and throat Marcus didn't really realize was there until it was removed.

"Why are you here?" He took a step forward, then another. "Why did you save Kana?"

" _ **Compulsion. Destroyed."**_ The dog almost keeled over, snake pupils narrowing in agony. _**"Voice. Shredded."**_

Marcus's hand slowly uncurled from the hilt. Hate and pity warred within him at the sight of the animal. Once proud and mysterious and arrogant, the dog was broken. And there was only one being who could undo the Compulsion.

"The Master's awake again," Marcus said, voice thickening with dread. "He's coming for her, isn't he? To fulfill his Legacy."

The dog shook his head in an entirely too human gesture.

" _ **Buried."**_ He shuddered and panted, tongue lolling, tail low brushing the snow. Marcus's non-existent eyebrows knit together, then nearly took off. _**"Host. Strong."**_

"A human… A human defeated the Master? It can't be." Even as he lead his kin into battle hundreds of miles away from the Catherdral, Marcus had followed the events through his connection to the Master. They all had. The Vault Dweller and the Followers had killed Lou and freed the psykers, but ultimately, they'd failed.

If the Master hadn't been so preoccupied with reshaping the Vault Dweller's unborn children into his Legacy after she told him of the mutants' infertility – ' _If he hadn't discarded us,'_ – then the Brotherhood too would have failed. The Unity would have been victorious.

Marcus pushed those thoughts away. He'd come to terms with his past long ago, by smashing his doubts, anger, and anguish to bits against the unshakeable wall that was Paladin Jacob, unwittingly doing the same for his old friend. The present and his kin's fate were matters of much greater concern.

The dog shook his head again, glaring at Marcus. _**"Buried. Tree Helped."**_

Not defeated, then. Buried, likely within the Host's mind. That didn't change the fact that a human, even if a bearer of the Legacy, had done the impossible and bested the Master.

Even if he'd had help – _'A tree?'_ \- that wasn't someone Marcus wished to cross paths with anytime soon.

"You didn't answer me," Marcus said to Dogmeat. With the Compulsion shattered, the dog was the Guardian no more. Just another revenant kept alive by the FEV. "Why are you here? Why did you save Kana?"

" _ **Protect. Pack."**_ Despite the blood dribbling from his jaw and some of his fresher wounds into the snow, Dogmeat's thoughts brimmed with what Marcus could only call pride. _**"Alpha. Asked."**_

"I see." Marcus cast a look over his shoulder and at the mountain. The Alpha, huh? That shouldn't be possible even for the Master or his reincarnation, but he'd seen a lot over the years. The wasteland tended to have one more surprise tucked away, somewhere beyond the next hill.

Marcus started on his way back to Jacobstown, crunching the snow underfoot. Dogmeat made way, then sidled up and fell into step, giant paws utterly silent. At the edge of the clearing, Marcus stopped. So did the dog.

"Even if you didn't have a choice, you poisoned Aki's mind. I can't forgive you for that." Dogmeat's eyes challenged him, but the dog didn't deny a word or defend himself. "Kana's free to trust you or not, but stay away from Jacobstown. Stay away from my people."

His voice hardened. Tabitha had been suicidal in her delusions, but wasn't wrong about one accusation she'd thrown at him.

"The Unity's best left buried with the Master, for all of our sakes."

Dogmeat became very still. His green eyes flashed in the moonlight; for a moment, Marcus felt the dog's fight-or-flight instinct mounting, urging him to rip and tear his throat out.

In moments, the dog had disappeared into the forest instead. If not for the paw-prints, the blood in the snow, and the weak presence retreating to the edges of Marcus's mind, it was almost like the dog had never been there.

Almost.

One last thought brushed Marcus's mind.

" _ **Awake."**_

' _Trust the drama to survive it all,'_ Marcus thought as he rushed back to Jacobstown.

* * *

"How's she doing?" Marcus asked.

"She's alert and oriented," Calamity's voice was muffled by the balaclava, "pretty snappy for a gal coming out of a coma. She's nearly bit Doctor Henry's head off when he mentioned the rehabilitation times." The ghoul woman was a walking bundle of clothes, every inch of her flayed skin covered against the cold, but her posture alone conveyed much. "He's a callous, cantankerous fossil, but he doesn't deserve that treatment. Not after pulling her from the brink."

Marcus made a mental note to check up on the doctor next and smooth things over with the prickly, irreplaceable man. "She's a doctor too. She'll understand the kind of effort that kept her alive, and she'll apologize. Nobody can be a monument of patience with him as you are."

" _You_ manage just fine." Calamity swatted him playfully on the arm, then walked back to the double doors. "Admit it, you're just partial to the gal. Come on, go in. She's waiting for you."

After the machinery to synthetize the anti-psychotic drug was transferred to a more secluded part of the lodge, a large chunk of Doc Henry's laboratory was hastily converted into a rehab clinic. To Marcus' lingering shock, Henry himself had insisted on group therapy and arrangements, even when the main lodge itself could have offered smaller, private rooms for each nightkin going through the treatment.

The sight never failed to warm Marcus's heart. Considering how little sleep his kin needed, beds fit to accommodate super mutants weren't really a thing even in Jacobstown, but a few comfortable cots had been assembled in the main area anyway. Hovering close to one of them, the newly-repaired Rhonda endured with robotic patience one of Tabitha's rants. The blind nightkin gesticulated with a wild cheer, forcing the Mr. Handy to duck and dodge, but the zealot madness that possessed her on Black Mountain was almost visibly fading as she laughed gutturally at one of Rhonda's remarks.

The sound alone made the weight of leadership sit more easily on his shoulders.

Half a dozen more nightkin sat in a circle, cross-legged on the floor or awkward on the reinforced stool that could bear their weight. Neil was leading an impromptu counseling session, giving Calamity some much-needed rest. His second in command offered an ear to the disjointed ramblings of his patients, their words filled with melancholic mentions of the Unity and the Master. Marcus stopped by, offering reassuring pats and a few words of encouragement.

Despite their thick scars and leathery skin, the Master's elite breed of warriors looked uncertain, confused, some even scared and betrayed. That they accepted therapy was immense progress, but Marcus knew their looks very well from his years after the Cathedral's destruction.

He'd seen each at different times, reflected back at him by ponds of rainwater or shards of glass. They belonged to someone confronting the naked truth of their own actions for the first time without any protective barriers to soften the blow.

At some point after their rebirth in the FEV vats of Mariposa, every mutant had lost themselves to the Master's voice. In the name of the Unity, they committed countless atrocities. He'd been part of that too, and done more than most. He'd led his kin during many of those acts.

There was hardly a day he didn't think back to Necropolis.

The nightkin, as the Master's favorites, had fallen deeper than most, so deep most never shook it off. Doc Henry had theorized early in his tenure at Jacobstown that the most severe cases of schizophrenia and dissociative identity disorder weren't due only to Stealth-Boy abuse and a certain genetic predisposition, but were also a defensive mechanism. A natural reaction, protecting frail minds from admitting and confronting what they'd wrought and all they'd lost.

At first, Marcus had humored the doctor; after watching the initial results of the Doc's therapy, the doubt had faded. He knew each of his remaining kin, their names and history, and there was a trend there.

Keene and his squad were the last group of nightkin to join the Master's Army, scant weeks before Mariposa was destroyed, at a time when the mutation process was much more refined. They were those who remembered the least from their Before, and the only ones who hadn't developed any alter egos, like Dog's God and Lily's Leo, or created imaginary friends like Davison's Antler.

He'd taken them to Black Mountain because they took the fastest to the therapy, and enjoyed the best recovery rates, even after using a Stealth-Boy.

That was one coincidence too many.

Everyone else, however, would need more time and help, months or even years of healing and tranquility to come to terms with themselves and be ready for the world outside Jacobstown.

If only the world would agree to grant them as much.

' _This is worth fighting for,'_ Marcus thought aloud. _'This is worth living for. Truly living for. Family. Kinship.'_

" _ **Pack."**_

Dogmeat's word was still echoing inside Marcus's head when he stepped into the human ward and stopped. A nightkin with a floppy hat and gardener gloves was looming over the only occupied bed, her half-naked body hiding Kana from view.

"Slow down, pumpkin! Grandma has more water for you."

Too little too late, Kana started to cough. Marcus rushed in and only just managed to grab Lily by the wrist before the concerned nightkin could pat the human on the back and crack her spine.

"But Marcus, Becky needs grandma's help!" Lily's confusion was almost painful to look at, but pity didn't ease Marcus's grip.

"Lily, look at her. She's not –"

"I'm fine," Kana wheezed out, "I'm fine, granny. I'm just a bit cold."

Lily's lips, free of the leather harness, turned into a little ecstatic circle. "Ho, I know, sweetheart! I'll make you a nice sweater, no, maybe a blanket! You're so thin, you must rest!"

"A blanket would be nice. Thank you, granny."

Marcus let go of her and Lily ambled off to a large, broken sofa in the far corner, a spring in her step. Soon, she was busy with knitting needles as long as most human forearms, transforming yarn of bighorner wool into a thick, fluffy blanket.

He took the empty cup from Kana's boney hand. Under the scrubs, she was indeed painfully thin, wrist and collar bones jutting out of the too-large collar and sleeves. The woman leaned back into the stacked pillows propping her up, her mestizo features drawn haggard by weeks of IV feeding and little else. Thin black braids and thicker dreadlocks fanned out around her head, tangled into sweat-matted knots.

"How long, Marcus? Henry wouldn't tell me."

"Neil brought you in at dawn on the 15th of September. Today's the 4th of November."

She drew in a breath, chest heaving as she sunk deeper into the pillows. "The Platinum Chip?"

"It wasn't in your pack, and the Pip-Boy was fried. Calamity's nearly done repairing it." He gave her a moment as she stared at her right hand, the limb covered in old electrical burn scars from her fingertips to nearly her elbow. "Kana, what the hell happened? You were supposed to meet Neil south of Sloan, and he found you half-dead and delirious in the desert instead."

He didn't mention Dogmeat, quietly hoping she had no recollection of the dog, at least for the moment. Neil did say she was already mostly out of it from blood loss and the radscorpion poison when the dog dragged her to him.

"I need to send a few messages. Westside, the Old Mormon Fort. The Strip," she said, voice tight as she flexed and tested her fingers. "Benny will be mad I lost the Chip, and the Boomers were waiting for those solar panels weeks ago, but I can still salvage this."

"Benny's dead." She blinked up at him, disbelief writ large all over her face. He crushed it. "It was on the radio a couple of weeks ago, before Freeside went up in flames. Assassinated in his own bed."

Despite her dark complexion, Kana drew herself up, paling with horror. "Assass – The Office? He knows?"

He rested a hand on her shoulder. "Calm down, you'll reopen your wound. Granite is in the Mojave: the Guard's fighting the Legion's raids and the Fiends. It could be them, or maybe House sniffed out Benny's trail. He was never subtle." He gave a shrug. "I don't know."

It took her a few moments to collect herself. Her face hardened and some color returned, hiding bubbling panic behind dogged determination. She fixed him with a look, one whose weight was eerily familiar. Black and brown mismatched eyes flashed with unspoken emotion.

"Okay. Tell me everything. Don't skip on the details."

Marcus eyed the nearby chair, but it wouldn't hold his armored weight, so he resigned himself to standing. For a good half-an-hour, he regaled her with all he'd heard on Radio New Vegas, starting with the Van Graff's failed coup in Freeside, Mr. House's iron-fisted reaction, and the subsequent rise in Fiend activity.

Retelling the events on Black Mountain and the close call with Mr. House's agents lead to a lengthy digression on the Legion offensives up and down the Colorado, the NCR's counter-offensives at Nipton and Nelson, and the Guard of Iron's activity around Novac and South Vegas. It was sketchy and third-hand to say the least, but Mr. New Vegas usually relayed accurate information.

She only interrupted for clarifications or to ask him to continue, in spite of her eyelids drooping on their own. After he'd narrated the last of it – I-15 reopening, Alice McLafferty's sudden death, and the big upcoming trials – he waited, studying her as she processed all the new information.

"Westside wasn't hit, as far as I know," he reassured her again, "but we haven't seen any caravan from the Co-Op since your last time here."

She barely relaxed. He'd figured she'd ask after the Chip or her friends and colleagues in the Followers and at the Westside-Ashton Co-Op. Even Benny.

"This is a mess," she said. "Tabitha said she dealt with a 'Good Man'? Some legion busybody?"

"He tricked her. He gave her fake information on Stealth-Boy caches in exchange for raiding the caravans up and down that stretch of I-15." Marcus's voice curdled in disgust. "He exploited their illness. Davison's group never came back from REPCONN, and more died clearing the deathclaws out of the quarry." Secretly, he just hoped none of Davison's nightkin had fallen in Granite's hands alive.

"Sounds like him." She grimaced.

"You've heard of him before?"

"Worse: I've met him once. Barely got out of there in one piece, and that was mostly Raul's doing. Name's Vulpes Inculta, the head of Caesar's Frumentarii. All-around bad news."

His brows furrowed. "He didn't hesitate to write off the hostage he left at Black Mountain." When she gave a non-committal hum, Marcus decided to press the matter further. Convalescent or not, it was no time for her paranoia to act up. "Was it the Legion that ambushed you?"

She chewed on the inside of her cheek, an old tick he wouldn't have noticed if she wasn't so thin. Marcus tried not to show his disappointment at her lack of trust. At last, she shook her head.

"The guy who jumped me had a laser rifle, and he knew how to use it." She closed her eyes, frowning in reminiscence, "I'd just made contact with the mercs Mr. House had hired to shadow my delivery. We were in some cave south of Goodsprings. I was trying to convince them to just take the caps and turn around, before they made contact with Benny and his Khans and things got ugly."

Kana grimaced and her hand went to the bullet wound on her left hip. "And then things got really ugly."

* * *

"Mira, jovencita." Gutierrez, the merc leader, crossed his arms over his barrel chest in the faint light of a chemical flare, "you Followers do good work, but we got paid up front. The Matochos don't go back on their word. Mai."

The other three mercs lounging in the cave expressed their appreciation in a broken mix of English and Spanish. Kana suppressed the urge to rub her forehead. These guys were well armed and held themselves like military types, the faded patches on their army greens hinting at some militia group down in Baja, or maybe the Sonora region.

But there were just five of them. Benny had meant to hire at least three times their number in Great Khans. Because why circumvent the problem when you can brain it with a brick? If she could get away with it, she'd roll her eyes. And here she was, trying to avoid a pointless bloodbath.

"Is it really going back on your word, when your employer lied to you?" she tried another angle. "Mr. House tricked you. If you see this contract to the end, you won't find another in the whole NCR for a long while. If ever again."

Gutierrez's forehead was a labyrinth of creases. One of his boys, couldn't be older than twenty, shrugged and rubbed his fingers together.

"Don't need to. Contract pays lots! Mucho dinero!"

"Callàte, Felipe!" Gutierrez barked. His voice bounced around the cave. "Go and take Juan's place. Àndale!"

The boy groaned. He didn't take three grudging steps before the light shifted inside the cave. Kana turned just in time to see the man silhouetted in the entrance grasp at his throat and crumple on his knees, then his face. Ozone burned her nostrils; eyes widening, she threw herself back and away from her improvised seat, fumbling for the silenced 10mm at her hip.

A point-blank laser shot incinerated Gutierrez's face as he lifted his pistol. Kana hit the ground on her back just as the merc leader's corpse did; panic and fear bubbled up as she drew her 10mm. The aggressor wasn't where he'd been a moment before: his large frame loomed over Felipe instead, cutting off any escape. A _crack,_ and the boy's head was twisted around on his shoulders, shock etched on slackening features.

Before his body touched the ground, one of the two remaining Matochos dropped his gun gurgling, a knife stuck in his throat. A convulsing foot kicked the chemical flare and the cave became a whirlwind of lights and shadows.

Kana braced her wrist, drew a bead on the man and squeezed the trigger, but he was already moving. Once, twice. She missed and ducked her head as 10mm rounds ricocheted. A muzzle flashed and the bark of a rifle nearly deafened her. She threw herself behind the nearest cover, hissing as a round hit the ground just inches from her knee.

"Don't say a word," she whispered to the Pip-Boy. Her fingers danced over the screen, bypassing the system's danger warnings for overcharging. The wrist device's capacitors began to hum softly.

The last Matocho fell backward, his jaw and neck flash-melting until his skull rolled free, eyes staring up at her. Kana gripped her pistol and found her voice.

"Can we talk –"

"The Platinum Chip. Derek." His voice was flat, hollow of any emotion. "Give him to me."

' _How does he know?!'_ Was he one of _his_ men? She swallowed, eyeing the Pip-Boy. Greenway remained silent. A small loading bar reached full capacity. "I don't know what you're –"

"You had your chance."

He was in her face before she could level the 10mm. _'Fast!'_ Cold, indifferent eyes and a long, jagged scar across his temple filled her vision; recoil traveled up her arm as she tried to shoot him anyway. Pain followed it and her pistol was in his hand, her haymaker blocked and twisted in a grip more vicious than steel. He shoved her into the wall and her world spun and swam as her head hit the rocks. Focus returned as he pressed the muzzle at the hip joint of her chest armor.

"Where?"

"Bite me."

"Wrong."

The echo of the discharge came before the pain. She gasped as the bullet tore through her, spreading agony and electricity up every nerve of her body. It wasn't the first time she ate a bullet, but being shot by her own gun was a first. Some clinical part of her brain suggested it must have lodged into her iliac bone, judging by the pain.

She sagged, the ground a welcome sight, but he grabbed her by her hair and forced her to stand, gasping in pain. Her Pip-Boy arm flopped free at her side.

"Where?" he asked again. His fingers dug into her wound, and she cried out. "Where?"

"Bag," she choked out.

He dropped her unceremoniously. Holstering her gun at his hip, he turned to the rock she'd been sitting on and her sling pack there on the ground. Kana caught herself on her knees, shivering and trying to force more air into her lungs. Her left hand came back from her hip coated with warm, thick blood, and the sight of it made her feel dizzy. The red was spreading on her white coat like the tide.

' _I'm not dying here,'_ she ordered herself, and crawled forward. He stopped his rummaging to throw a look at her, then went back to his task, dismissing her. She was bleeding out and had no weapon. She was no threat. Kana gritted her teeth against the pain, struggling for every foot of ground. He couldn't take the Chip. He _couldn't_ –

The man held the Platinum Chip between thumb and forefinger. He turned it this way and that, staring at it as if mesmerized. After a long contemplation, he shoved it in his pocket and rose.

Kana leaped onto his back, a flood of adrenaline muting the pain for but a moment before it all came crashing back. She grabbed onto his shoulder, feeling him react already, and pressed the front pads of her Pip-Boy's glove into the base of his skull. Recognizing the right amount of pressure, the overcharged defibrillator in-built into her Pip-Boy discharged hundreds of Joules into his brain stem at once.

His entire body convulsed like a mad bighorner trying to throw her off, a groan of agony slipping through clenched teeth. Some of the current coursed back through her own body; Kana had to let go, her hand and forearm burning. Then her vision erupted with stars, and the cave blinked out into darkness.

The next thing she knew, she was alive and staring up at the cave's ceiling. That didn't add up, but she was too lethargic to care; something wet and warm pooled under her, squelching as she tried to move and look around. Blood. Her blood. How much had she lost already? The answer didn't seem as time-sensitive as closing her eyes and sleeping for a little while. Part of her knew she should be chasing after someone, to recover – a chip? Yep, the Platinum Chip. Derek. She had to get him back.

People relied on her, didn't they?

Kana tried to flop over, but the pain in her side pinned her into place, turning her limbs to stone. At least, if she remained very still, the pain started to recede again. After a while, she remembered that the relief was due to her body bleeding out, and that all too soon, she wouldn't have enough strength anymore.

' _Keep the wound clean and close it. There'll be time for harebrained plans later,'_ her inner Arcade reminded her. She'd have to remember to thank him for that.

She nearly blacked out again, but after much struggling, one ankle looped into her bag's strap. Trembling fingers dug blindly into a pouch, the wet blood making her grip slippery. She uncorked the needle with her teeth and stuck the needle above the bullet hole, biting the inside of her cheek from the pain until it bled.

* * *

A dry cough cut Kana short. Marcus offered her some water, which she sipped with some help to sit upright, before sinking into the pillows again, nodding her thanks. For a minute, Lily's knitting and off-key humming was the only sound in the ward. The blanket was already a couple feet long and growing longer.

"What happened then?"

Kana shrugged stiffly, testing her body's response. "I didn't find him, but the scorpions found me. After that, things get fuzzier. I – " she squinted at her hands, then up at Marcus again, "I remember Neil, I think, and – a rattlesnake? No, it had four legs. A nightstalker?" Her frown was painful to look at.. "I don't know."

Marcus hummed non-committedly. Somewhere in the distance, he could feel the echoes of Dogmeat's displeasure.

"Something doesn't add up," he said instead. "On your last run here, didn't you say the Chip was some kind of computer upgrade for Mr. House?"

She shook her head, slow and sluggish. "I was wrong. Benny was wrong. Which means either Yes Man lied, and its programming doesn't allow it -"

"- or Mr. House always knew," Marcus sentenced.

"He knew more than we thought, that's for sure. But maybe not everything, or he would have vetted his couriers better." Kana grimaced. "Unless he wanted us to underestimate him, and uproot the whole conspiracy in one go."

"Careful, or you'll begin to see plots and enemies even when there are none."

"Do you know what Albert used to say all the time?"

Marcus smoothed out a frown before it could form. "I only met your brother once, but we didn't get to speak long."

"'A paranoid is just the guy who sees the whole picture'," she quoted, "and he was right. When you play politics, there are enemies and knives everywhere, both in plain sight and in the shadows. There isn't a scenario that's just too bad to be true." She tucked a thick dreadlock behind her ear, the hand lingering on the knotted hair. "Look at what happened to him."

"Nobody could've foreseen the Brotherhood's attack."

She shrugged and looked away. "Maybe. But it still happened."

He didn't have anything to say that could change her mind on that. She'd either start to accept that bad things sometimes happened in spite of all the preparations and caution in the world, or she didn't, and she'd burn out sooner rather than later. It was a lesson Marcus had learned the hard way when the Master died, and again, decades later, in the belly of Mariposa.

"So, who's this Derek?"

Kana stiffened, but she had the decency to avoid denying what he'd heard. "Do you remember what Garrett said, about what the Rangers were looking for in Baja? Back in '78?"

"That was a busy time." Marcus tried to recall what Kana had said about the ghoul Veteran Ranger. It had been important, back then, and it wasn't only because Garrett said Aki had pulled some strings to have the Rangers sent there. "They sought Old-World environmental and farming tech from some pre-War company, I think. A back-up plan, should the NCR lose control of Lake Mead."

"Greenway Hydroponics. After the founder, Derek Greenway." He recognized the spark that burned behind her words, and it made him listen a little more closely. "The Platinum Chip contains his mind, or maybe a copy of it. House's scavenger teams retrieved it from the ruins."

A human mind copied into a storage device smaller than his pinkie? That pushed it. Then again, it wouldn't make top five in his list. Like with Skynet, though, this was different.

"Garrett said they found only ruins, broken terminals, and the Enclave poking around."

Kana's face hardened. "Greenway and House go way back, before the War. Chances are he knew what to look for better than they did."

"Did Greenway tell you all that from inside the Chip?"

"The Chip acted as a short-range transmitter. He linked up with my Pip-Boy after I picked up the package like it was nothing."

"And you take his words at face value?"

Kana bit the inside of her cheek, but her gaze didn't waver. "I know I sound like a hypocrite to you now. No, I don't trust a word he says, but think about it. The Enclave, House, Aki: they must have been looking for him for a reason."

Marcus folded his arms again, pushing down his frustration. Arguing would only escalate things and upset both of them as well as his kin in the other room. Kana was still recovering from her ordeal. The least he could do was humor her, even when she was being unreasonable.

She took his silence as her cue. "Imagine all the flora and fauna that were wiped out by the bombs: countless species, gathered and protected in a single facility. Their DNA, unaltered. Now think of enough Garden of Eden Kits to restore the land, all of it! Enough to turn the sand and dust into a paradise for everyone, man and mutant both."

As she paused to breathe, Marcus could almost see it. Her words summoned a vision. Yes, it'd be a world where his kin would be walking reminders of painful past even more than at present. But maybe, after enough time and generations, they could thrive with the humans, not in spite of them.

"Greenway called it the Nursery."

It was a pretty name for a good dream. Just a bit too good to be true.

"And where did he build it, Kana? Why didn't he use it already? Why would he tell you?"

Her expression fell, but her chin didn't. "I think he needs help to find it again. He said they hid it away at Big MT, and he doesn't know where that is."

"They?" He placed a hand on her shoulder, coaxing her to sink under the sheets with a gentle touch. "Big MT is a legend. Just another ghost story. This Greenway, whoever he is, was playing you. Rest now."

He was ready for her protest, but whatever she read on his face made her desist. Or maybe she was just that tired, Marcus considered.

The nervous strength of her grip on his fingers made him quickly reconsider.

"Marcus, the messages. I need to send them."

He blinked, needing a moment to remember what she was even talking about. "Jacobstown's on lockdown," he said. "There are potential hostiles in the mountains and Mr. House will be on the lookout for us, after we destroyed one of his robots. I can't risk sending someone that close to Vegas, not this soon. Don't worry, I've left a note at the Followers' safehouse weeks ago, saying you were alive. They'll know by now."

"Then just one. Please." The alarm in her voice gave him pause. All of a sudden, she looked desperate enough he feared she'd try to climb out of the bed herself and re-open her wounds, or worse. "To La Casa Madrid, in Westside. A super mutant won't turn as many heads there. In and out in minutes. Or send Calamity. Anyone."

"Casa Madrid - the brothel?" What was this kind of talk? Was she running a fever again? He had to ask Calamity to check: his own skin was too thick for that.

Kana nodded, unashamed. She tried to sit straighter and pull him closer, as if she feared he was about to bolt. Her arms trembled, the knuckles gripping his fingers paling. "Ask for Pretty Sarah. She runs the place. Give her my courier's patent. It's in my pack. Tell her - Tell her I'm alive, and that I'm coming back."

She broke into a fit of coughing. Marcus offered her another cup of water, but she refused it with the same stubbornness that was going to get her killed for good, some day. "She'll pass the word to the Co-Op and the Followers. Please, Marcus!" His name was delivered in a hissing plead. "I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't important."

She held onto him for another moment, then the last scrap of fervent energy fled her. She sagged bonelessly, but her hand held on for a few moments longer.

"Please."

" _ **Can. Help."**_

Marcus winced, but Kana was drifting off into sleep fast, and she didn't notice. Ignoring the dog's words for the moment, Marcus patted her hand and tucked it under the sheets, then put Lily's newly finished one on top. She was so weak right now, even for a human, getting sick from the cold was a very real possibility.

"I'll see what I can do," he said to her, even if she couldn't hear him, "but no promises."

* * *

The next time Kana came to, she was cold and hungry. Some feeling had returned to her body, a stiff ache from laying in the same position for too long mixed the itch of thin scar tissue covering her right arm and the dull pull from her side. Heavy-lidded eyes searched the room as she tried to shimmy up to a half-sitting position. She pulled up the thick extra blanket to her chest and spent a few moments catching her breath.

Only the gravelly snoring rolling under the door and through the walls told her she wasn't alone in the lodge.

The lights were out, but a faint glow suffused from outside, echoing with rhythmic hammering. It whistled through the old boards with the drafts, and it dawned on her again that it was already November and no longer the middle of September.

A stab of guilt, shame, and longing burned some of the confusion away. Without anyone else around to see her, her composure cracked. She had been away before - she had to, for David's sake - but never for months on end. Never without sending any message. The safehouse was rarely used, a vestige of when the Followers had the personnel to man it. These days, weeks could pass before someone stopped by, and those times, it was usually her with a caravan for Jacobstown.

How much had she missed, this time? Did they sing him his lullaby to make him fall asleep? Did he still drag Mr. Rawr in circles around his room all day, or had he grown out of that?

Kana bit down on her knuckles. Did they think she was dead? Had someone told David she wouldn't come back this time? Most of Pretty Sarah's girls and boys didn't have the patience or the time to handle David when he had one of his fits. They never struck him – they didn't _dare_ – but all it took was a careless word said in anger, or frustration. David was a smart boy, smarter than most people gave him credit for due to his condition.

Would he remember her, if she was dead? Did he even consider her his mother, or was she just an unfamiliar visitor who sometimes dropped in and tried to share his daily routine for a while?

She tried to rally valiantly under the banner of logic and reason. Pretty Sarah would never throw David out on the streets, and Kana always left her with enough extra caps for emergencies, but it had been months now since she last left Westside to pick up the Chip.

Months. Had they run out of money? Caring for a child was expensive, especially if he got sick again. Would Arcade or Red Lucy even know, with all the fighting that happened in the past weeks in Freeside and South Vegas? Was someone there with him, to soothe him when he woke up from night terrors full with black rain and red sand?

She wasn't there, and that ate at her more than ever. Not for the first time, Kana willed her limbs to move, but her legs were like desert-cooked maggots under the blankets.

"Just a little while longer, okay?" she begged the empty room. Loud snoring answered her.

She combed back some of the smaller, stray braids that had fallen over her eyes, and her elbow bumped into something smooth and hard. Kana lifted the Pip-Boy someone had left by her side onto her lap; that small effort alone left her arms aching.

Her stiff fingers traced the familiar scratches and marks across the ceramic casing. It was hers alright, and it looked like Calamity had done a good job at replacing the burnt-out components. She'd have to remember to thank the ghoul. The screen blinked to life and she squinted from the green glow attacking her.

Despite what Marcus said, she couldn't help but check the holotape allotment. Empty, of course. The ambusher had taken the Chip from her, but did he still have it, or did Benny and the Khans take it from him in turn? They had been close to Goodsprings, and loud. Was the Chairman targeted because he had the Chip, then? Had it, somehow, found its way to House, or did Aki have it? All the branching possibilities made her temples throb with pain, but she had to think.

If the insulation around her Pip-Boy's memory banks had preserved the data caches and she could still receive radio signals, then maybe…

She set her Pip-Boy on a half-remembered frequency and crossed her fingers.

Static.

"Greenway?" she spoke the name into the mic, a croak more than a whisper. "Can you hear me?"

She'd barely spoken when short sequences of numbers invaded the Pip Boy's screen in glowing row after row. Kana's eyes narrowed, trying to keep up. Two or three numbers composed each sequence, with the first number always separated from the second by a semicolon; the first number was also never higher than five, while the highest number after the semicolon was a whopping twenty-four.

She brought the device closer to her face and scrolled to the bottom of the message, searching for any clue for the cipher. Or better, a key. The familiar words signing it off turned her frown from focus to confusion.

'' _Zonk to bed?' How does he know about that?'_

She caught up after a minute of trying to recall the details of what happened between picking up the package at a dead-drop in San Diego and the ambush. After Greenway revealed himself, she'd hummed the lullaby on the road… hadn't she? Old habits die hard, even in the face of a discovery of that magnitude. He must have heard it then and turned it into an impromptu cipher.

It had to be it. The lullaby had five verses, and when she mentally counted the letters in the longest verse, the fourth, the result was indeed twenty-four.

While she thought it over, the Pip-Boy's speakers broadcasted nothing but the faint crackle of static. At last, she had to admit Greenway wouldn't – or couldn't – speak; she switched off the radio – the static was playing havoc with her migraine - and began to hum the lullaby under her breath, matching numbers with letters and committing each new combination to memory.

"One two, eat the stew…"

It was slow going, especially because Greenway used any and all repetitions of any letter in the song – including all seventeen instances of an 'e' - rather than pick one position and stick to it. Kana understood paranoia all too well, but seventeen? That was just overkill.

"… three, four, mop the floor…"

It made the cipher that much harder to crack without the key, but she felt like she was leaking molasses from her ears. Without a pencil and paper, it was all a matter of memory and she had to go back several times to double and triple check again how certain numbers translated.

"… five, six, lay the bricks…"

As she continued to sing on and on, letters and numbers began to blur from staring at the screen for too long. She had to take a break, choking down a hiccup and pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes, but resumed after a little while in earnest.

"Seven, eight, smash the plates…"

She ran out of water, so when her throat dried up again, she continued to sing in her head. The whole process was as hypnotic as it was alienating; she caught herself nodding off twice and pushed away the bone-deep exhaustion by focusing on how much her eyes burned.

'… _Nine, ten, zonk to bed.'_

After what felt like hours, and probably was longer, it was only a matter of slicing words apart and adding punctuation, and she had the full message.

' _Did he really have to use so many adverbs?!'_

* * *

 _Don't answer this, it's too risky. Bob thinks he has me, the senile coot. I'm at large in his network, have been for a while. Yes Man's routines came in handy there. For a non-sentient VI, it burrowed surprisingly deep._

 _Your ambusher is an Enclave FEV experiment, one Lt. Johnathan Ross. Completely amnesiac after Benny and his Khans shot him to recover me, but hey, nobody's perfect. Better yet, Bob has Ross twisted around his little finger. The guy is his lapdog with benefits now. Oh, the irony._

 _Your boy Benny is dead, by the way. A third party killed him before Ross could, some android super-woman calling herself Sarah Lyons. Kind of hot, but she's apparently former Brotherhood brass. Watch your back._

 _I'll bet you a GECK Ross's left arm is a Big MT prosthetic, and not an old model. He has been there, may even know how to get there again. We need him to remember. Bob knows about that too. My fault there. Sad face._

 _P.S. Told you. Yep, didn't forget about that. Still glad you are alive, but chop-chop, Courier Six. The clock's ticking and you've overslept. I'll be in touch._

* * *

Kana rubbed her forehead until her fingers ached, but the migraine didn't subside.

Months, years of hard work and sacrifices and paranoia, of bartering for contacts and favors and moving under the radar trying not to lose her moral compass, and then the Enclave's meddling flushed it all down the toilet. Again.

Kana was almost too tired to be infuriated and she'd stopped cursing when David was born. No extent of foul language would change the hard truth, anyway.

The only person who probably got out of Big MT alive, and maybe even saw the Nursery, was some Enclave assassin who didn't even remember a second of it.

Her hand stroked the thickest of her dreadlocks, two knotted dreadlocks braided into one and falling from the crown of her head down to her shoulder.

"Another mad dog who doesn't know his own history. Some things never change, do they, hon?" She scrolled down the Pip-Boy's registered audio tracks, more grateful than ever for Calamity's skill in preserving the data, and selected the first of several files.

His voice filled her ears, every sentence of their old conversations digging up memories teeming with subdued longing, fading comfort, and a common vision.

Sleep beckoned her, but she pushed it aside, letting his words rekindle her spirit. She'd started over once already, well into her pregnancy and with dozens of hardened refugees behind her. She'd do it again, and this time, it'd be easier.

But first, David.

Kana glared at her legs and toes, willing them to move. Gathering her strength, she leaned forward, biting down a hiss as the catheter shifted painfully and her insides complained. It took more tugs than she cared to count to pull the sheets away. The autumn chill sent a shiver up her atrophied muscles as Kana leaned back against the pillows, breathing hard.

She glowered at her feet.

"Move," she commanded her big toe.

Nothing. Her breathing slowed down.

"Move."

No dice. She clasped her hand across her belly, feeling the scar of the c-section under the scrubs.

" _Move_."

There. A wiggle. Her big toe brushed against the next. Kana smiled.

"Hard part's over."

* * *

 _David's lullaby is a slightly modified version of the one sung by the rocking horse in "Forgotten Anne". Go play that game, it's absolutely beautiful, and cheap as chips._

 _Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed. Don't forget to leave a_ _ **review**_ _. If there was ever a time for that, I'd say it's now._


	25. 22) Charlie Foxtrot, Entrée

**Missing in Action 22) Charlie Foxtrot, Entree**

 _My thanks to_ _ **ScrimshawPen, DmCrebel25, Aegon Blacksteel, The Desert Dancer, Paladin Bailey, PartyPat22, JSailer,**_ _Guest (Yes, it's the same Dogmeat. Physically, at least.),_ _ **WilSquare, Winding Warpath, MasterDoom Maker (x2), colstrent (x4)**_ _for their feedback and support._

 _I've deleted House's scene from the last chapter. It was too wordy, and most of the content was either redundant after Kana's scene with Derek, or just telling worldbuilding rather than showing it. It didn't work well, no matter the information it confirmed or revealed. That still stands, by the way. Or maybe they don't anymore._

* * *

" _Today's news was brought to you by the Wah Ching Triad. To all the Shi folks in this fine city, Vegas has a place for you. More classics coming right up for you, so stay tuned."_

John knocked back the lithium and replaced the empty vial into the box as _Blue_ _Moon_ started waxing out of the radio. _'Only a few more to go.'_ He stowed the medication back into his personal locker, then stole out of the bedroom, following the sound and aroma of sizzling meat into the kitchen.

He flipped one steak, then the other, and pressed the rawer side on the hob with a spatula. A rosemary stick dipped into the oil and he brushed the steak with it, careful not to overdo it. Just enough to add to the taste, not cover it, Veronica had said.

Satisfied, he picked up his book where he left off. In moments, he was wearing Rodion Raskolnikov's shoes again, treading the streets of St. Petersburg to the rhythm of Dostoevsky's prose.

He hadn't known what to expect when he started therapy with Mr. Cork, two weeks before. A reading assignment hadn't been it.

It didn't take long to figure out the reason behind the barman-therapist's taste.

The first time the Russian student's internal conflict and guilt over a senseless murder strummed at familiar cords, John had put down the book. The next time, and many after that, he did the same.

Two weeks later and half the book in, the impulse was weaker. And yet, it was still a relief to have a good excuse to put down the book when the door hissed open.

"That smells nice." His wife walked up, already kicking off her low shoes, apron folded over one arm. The other slid comfortably around his side. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "You know, there's only so many ways you can have a steak before just frying it."

"Nope, only one. Medium rare –"

" – no sauce. Always the purist." They shared a chuckle and Joana gave him a quick peck before she disappeared into the bathroom. When he heard the shower power-up, he moved the small dining table away from the only window giving into the Vault's corridor. After he made sure that nobody was lurking outside, he pulled the curtains, and set the table in the middle of their living space. Lastly, he lit the two scented candles he'd bought at the Heavenly Dragon in Freeside, earlier that day.

Humming, he plated the steaks up with potato wedges, then set the homemade deviled eggs with peppers beside a cool bowl of fruit salad, a light thing made of sliced banana yucca, mutfruit, and cactus fruit with only a sprinkle of pinyon nuts.

On the way to the room's light controls, he caught a glimpse of himself in the screen of the dormant Pip-Boy, left near the sink.

He was smirking. His muscles started to curl downwards. Following Mr. Cork's advice, he closed his eyes and focused on the general soreness of his muscles after a hard day of physical work; on the faint tingle lingering after the skin of his right palm regenerated where it split open, again and again, after tearing his working gloves on a piece of rebar.

The pang of guilt eased. It wasn't much, but it was something. Then he realized the shower wasn't running anymore. He forced the smile back and rushed to the controls.

Joana gaped a little when she emerged, clad in a tank top and sweatpants, skin rosy from the hot water. John's face relaxed a little, but his pants started to feel tight.

"Wow. What are we celebrating?"

"Us. Today's our fourth anniversary, isn't it?"

She looked at the table, eyes distant. "It is." Her smile wavered. "You remembered?"

"Just what you told me."

"It'll come back to you. I know it." She walked up to him and poked him in the chest. "'Us', huh? That was corny."

"Still true."

"Still corny." She took his hand and led him to the table. "This looks delicious!"

He pulled the chair out for her, and they dug in. The food washed away the lingering taste of lithium in his mouth. Two weeks into marital life and three meals a day had done wonders for both of them. Joana didn't speak much of her time in North Vegas, but he knew she'd skirted too close to starvation. When, during their first session, Mr. Cork suggested that he picked up a hobby as well as _Crime and Punishment_ , cooking had been John's first choice.

The very faint scars in the crook of Joana's elbow and how she always wore long sleeves at work told another story too, a familiar one. The only time he'd asked, a wall had gone up behind her eyes, and she'd said she didn't want to talk about it. Not yet.

That night, he'd woken up to an empty bed and sobs echoing from the bathroom. He didn't know what to do. When she'd laid back down, after what felt like hours, he'd pretended to be asleep.

He didn't ask again, giving her time and space. In return, she never questioned him on what his work for Mr. House entailed.

He chewed on a nerve in the meat, looking at her. What was better? Lies and half-truths, or willingly ignoring certain discussions as per a tacit agreement?

"These are great. So spicy!" She smiled at him around a mouthful of deviled eggs. He pushed those thoughts aside.

"How was your day? That Omertas thug bothered you again?"

"I told you, Sarah's banned him, and a Securitron took him in for harassment. Relax." She shrugged and picked another egg. "More and more people are coming in, now that the NCR has pushed the Fiends back. Sarah's pleased. And she thinks you're avoiding her."

"I am," John grunted. Joana chuckled. "That woman's dangerous."

"She's just a terrible gossip." Her bare foot left a trail of shivers up John's calf. She answered his raised eyebrow with an impish smirk. "She's also asked to join in, one of these nights."

John choked on a potato wedge. Joana chortled into her fist.

"Devil woman," he coughed.

"Don't worry," she said, a glint in her eye, "I won't let her ravish you. You're mine."

A small, fond smile spread across his face. "Now who's being corny?"

She flicked a nut at him. "Shut up. What about you? How was Freeside?"

"It was good. Better than last week," he amended, sobering up. "The King's out and about again, and there's been a surge of new jobs since Mr. House and Crocker struck their deal."

The NCR Ambassador had gone on air a few days before, ratifying in the same breath the creation of an official NCR colony in Freeside, and the transfer of most of the Sharecropper Farms to Mr. House.

Presley King had limped out of the Strip less than an hour later, escorted by Securitrons. Then two days later, a column of Shi trucks had driven up to Freeside's gate.

"More than a hundred people showed up to help at the School, on top of the Kings there," John continued. "That was something. We cleared out most of the debris in the morning and made good progress on the outer walls. There was even a Protectron playing architect for the renovation."

John had been close enough to see the King clearly. More than the scars lining his handsome face, or his words of collaboration with Mr. House and the Securitrons, it was his eyes that stuck with John. They didn't belong to a cowed man. The memory soured the taste of the crunchy potato.

"What's an architect?" Joana asked.

"Someone who plans and oversees the construction of a building. Mr. House programmed some spare robots with the know-how and set them loose." John made a circling gesture with his fork. "There's a couple dozen of them all over Freeside and the Sharecroppers now, I think. Helping set up greenhouses and irrigation systems, repair homes, wells, pipes, roads. And I heard some of the Followers talk about public schooling come spring when I passed by the Fort." He chewed down the last of his steak. Mr. House had been busy. "The first greenhouse will be up in a couple of days. People have already started planting the Shi's cool season crops in pots."

Joana looked thoughtful. "That was very kind of Mr. House. I mean, lending the crops, giving all that free food around during the crisis. All he did for us."

John nodded. Kind was not a word he'd use to describe Mr. House. A firm believer in the carrot and the stick, absolutely. Someone who did nothing without a personal gain, a gain for Vegas. And yet, he had been generous.

In spite of the terms of their contract and how pressing the Boomer situation had sounded a couple of weeks before, the ruler of Vegas hadn't brought any of that up, or any other black op whatsoever, ever since he reunited with Joana.

They even stopped playing high-stakes poker, which did help John's pockets.

Looking back, it was a break he didn't know he'd needed. Both to deal with his own baggage, and learn to know and live with his wife again. The road was long and tortuous. but John was grateful for the opportunity to walk it.

And yet, he awoke almost every night with a start, covered in sweat. Half-remembered dreams of glass domes and crushing pincers mixed with the memories of the very real mangled bodies dug out from the buildings that collapsed in the Silver Rush's explosion.

Sometimes, as he lay there, panting quietly as to not awake Joana, Jason Bright's voice in his head asked if the price of his soul was worth the future Mr. House had gifted him.

Joana's hand over his started him. She peered at him in the candlelight. "Hey. You spaced out a bit there."

"Just thinking." She squeezed his hand, her offer unobtrusive yet clear. John wondered what to say. Would she judge him, if he told her the truth about what he'd done to buy them this chance? What kind of relationship could they even rebuild on top of lies?

"I don't remember anything," he said. It was a truth, just not the truth of what he'd been thinking about. "The East, all we went through to escape the Enclave and get here. It's a complete blank. Nothing's coming back."

She stood and hugged him from behind, resting her chin on the crook of his neck. "It's not your fault, Johnathan." Her breath tickled him, her chest pressed against his back. Despite his shame, his body started to respond.

"It's Benny's. He tried to take everything from us. He almost took you away from me." She cupped his face, making him look at her. "The Enclave tried too, but we're still here. You're a good man."

' _I'm a mass murderer.'_

Later, on the couch, Joana stretched her legs across his lap and John gave her a foot massage. Hank Williams's _Jambalaya_ and the occasional groan filled the silence between them for slow minutes, while Joana's free foot traced lazy circles on the inside of his thigh.

"How do you want to celebrate?" he asked. The circling stopped, and Joana smirked teasingly.

"Everyone's speaking about the Rad Pack's new act at the Tops. We've still got time to catch it."

The radio powered down, the sudden silence cutting him off. John's head snapped around just in time to see Mr. House's face appear on the Pip-Boy's screen.

"Mr. Ross."

Joana gasped. John turned back to her with an apologetic look. She offered a wistful smile, and nodded at the sink. He picked up the Pip-Boy and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

"I'm here, sir."

"I know." Mr. House didn't sound pleased. "There's been a measles outbreak at the Aerotech refugee camp. The Followers are mobilizing, and Ms. Santangelo is assisting. Keep a close tab on her in the next few days, will you? And please, be discrete. Don't overdo it with the Stealth Boys again."

"Yes sir," John confirmed, wincing. "What happened to the tracker you put in her suit?"

"It stopped transmitting for a few hours, then it turned back on. It could be a malfunction, or she may know about it. Either way, it's a chance I won't take."

There was little shushing that stab of guilt. "Do you think she'll pack up and go back to the bunker? Last time I spoke to her, it looked like she'd clicked with the Followers." With most of them, at least. Her direct superior, the same Dr. Gannon from Novac, was distant and sardonic, sharp eyes suspicious behind his spectacles.

"I predict she will, after she hears the news." There was a smirk in Mr. House's voice. "I intercepted an army transmission to McCarran. Lost Hills has capitulated. Finally, I may add. Brigadier General Navache has taken High Elder Maxson captive."

"Alive?" John drew in a breath, recalling the data from Mr. House's thin folder on the Iron General and the thicker one on his decade-long campaign against the Brotherhood, which he'd only skimmed. The song was always the same. No survivors. "He means to parade him around, doesn't he?"

"A savvy political move, for a tribal." Was that annoyance? "Soon, the news will spread like wildfire. For the morale boost on the frontlines, if nothing else."

The dots linked in John's mind. There was no way Veronica wouldn't hear, not when at an NCR camp. "That means the Mojave bunker –"

"- is the last, pitiful holdout of the Brotherhood in the West. Considering their isolation policies, I predict that she'll rush to get the news to them. An emotional, knee-jerk reaction. She will lead you straight to their doorstep." Scorn and mockery dripped from Mr. House's voice. "I won't have more bulging-eyed fanatics galavant around the Mojave, sowing chaos."

John's throat was dry, the lingering taste of dinner turning to ash. "You want me to kill them?"

"Hm. I doubt you can bluff or sneak your way in. You're a capable agent, Mr. Ross, but it's better we leave the bunker-cracking to the specialists. Especially when several are at hand. Don't take unnecessary risks. Just bring me the coordinates."

The bottom fell out from John's stomach under Mr. House's pixel stare. _'He's going to turn them into more political capital.'_ "What about Veronica, sir?"

"As per our contract, her fate remains up to you."

The bed creaked under John's sudden weight. "I'll bring Boone," he said, eyes closed. If the sniper was willing. In hindsight, Boone had taken to being used as bait for cannibals as well as it could be expected. He'd seen little of the sniper ever since. "He's a better tracker than I am." _'A better man. Maybe he'll know what to do.'_

"That won't be possible," House said. John's head snapped up. "He headed into Fiends' territory three days ago. Hunting, I believe the word was." Mr. House's voice turned steely. "Don't let misdirected sympathy cloud your judgment, Mr. Ross. I'd be terribly disappointed."

* * *

 _No Proof._

The incision on the .308 cartridge was so thin, Boone would have missed it in full daylight if he didn't already know it was there.

Office's standard contact method, Lt. Boyd had said. Never mentioned how pointless it would all be.

He should have never accepted their offer. Looking back, he'd have let Ranger Tanner walk out of that interrogation room. He'd do a great many things differently.

' _But that's not how it works.'_

Boone slotted the ruined cartridge into a damaged mag, then secured that in a pouch on his rig. For later. He plucked another .308 from the loose stash he'd bought from Mick & Ralph three days before. Finding no imperfections, he filed it into the last empty mag.

Down the high-powered scope, the night ruins beyond the loosely boarded-up window were awash in Cateye blues. Further north-west, a huge fire blazed a glowing white. Dust motes and dirt from the sandstorm two weeks before danced before the lenses, disturbed when he'd adjusted the rifle's bipod on the table.

Boone locked the mag into the AXMC and chambered the first round. .308s were cheaper than .338 Lapua. Easier to find in large quantities. Just needed to switch his rifle's barrel, and he was good to go.

.308s cut through the Khans, at Bitter Springs. They'd do for the Fiends. The precious few AP .338 left from House's armory had another name already written on them.

Boone checked the starry sky through the wide gaps in the boarded window. Almost time. Cook-Cook enjoyed late dinners, and so did his gang. Motor Runner's disastrous offensive and the army's counterattack hadn't changed that habit. The not-so-distant blaze didn't, either. He made sure the cooler bag was within hands' reach for a quick getaway,

His back complained. The chair creaked under the weight of the riot gear as he shifted, to keep the blood flowing. He placed two more mags on the table for a quick reload, took a sip of water, and then set to waiting for his prey. After two days of scouting and preparing, he was finally ready.

Five stories below and a collapsed city block away, several brahmin cows and bulls dozed in a pen. A cooking fire roared silently in a pit. The white glow played on scattered bottles, metal armor and cattle skulls.

A thin crowd of Fiends warmed themselves up around the fire. To a man, those not spastic or senseless with drugs and booze stared regularly north-west. Mouths ran, the words lost. A fistfight erupted and was quickly broken up before the knives came out.

Boone counted at least a dozen fewer people than the night before. He'd seen them trickle out throughout the day, between the sporadic patrols. The perimeter was full of holes, mounted guns barely manned. The few who'd had been caught were shot in the back. It didn't stop others from trying.

Cook Cook's gang was falling apart. Boone studied them. This remaining crowd could never get the jump on any First Recon team. Too ragtag. Disorganized.

It was no consolation for Betsy, though. Killing the rapist herself would help her more than all the therapy at Dr. Usanagi's, but she couldn't. Too compromised to risk it, the doctor said.

What did a shrink know? But Betsy had her orders, from Lt. Gorobets and Major Dhatri.

Flames spurted out from a nearby building, white and blinding. Boone blinked rapidly. Soon. He double-checked that his line of fire remained free. The cooking fire flickered and wavered, white flames blowing in his direction.

He adjusted the scope to compensate for the wind, glancing at the numbers jotted on a scrap of paper taped to the inside of the scope's flip-up cap. Moments later, the cool autumn breeze washed over him through the boarded window.

Boone shivered inside the armor. The cold echoed inside his bones.

Forty-five minutes. He'd spent that long inside the Ultra-Lux's cooler. He rubbed his fingers and toes against ghost-frostbite. Nearly froze to death there, before the kitchen shift changed and he managed to sneak out.

Meanwhile, Doe had kidnapped Alice McLafferty, and pinned the blame on the White Gloves' Society. Hadn't even denied it, when he came to apologize.

He hadn't expected any better, not from another mass-murderer. Wouldn't lose any sleep over the masked fools, either. But to compromise Crimson Caravan meant sabotaging the army's supply lines. The info went into his last coded report. House's movements at Black Mountain, the super mutant inner strife, even the Legion involvement, were just a quick addendum.

The Office's answer came in the terms of the new agreement with Mr. House, and etched on a .308 cartridge. _No Proof._

The message couldn't be any clearer. Boone exhaled sharply, struggling to control his breathing.

He had his orders. Be Doe's shadow. Spy on House. Stay on the lookout for Enclave contact.

He had had orders at Bitter Springs too. Followed them, and stared down his scope at women and children. Put him on life's blacklist.

Movement around Cook Cook's camp alerted him. It wasn't the chieftain and his aides, carrying a fresh carcass tied to a metal grill, to finish crisping it and then carve it up for the posse. He zeroed the scope on the newcomers as they walked past the perimeter, their numbers swelling by the second in the firelight.

Ten. Twenty. Fifty, and rising. Fiends in patchwork metal armor or half-naked, cattle and human skulls hanging from sashes and belts. His finger froze on the trigger at the sight of the first horned helmet among that crowd.

Great Khans, geared for war. Thick motorcycle gear reinforced with heavy metal plates replaced the usual sleeveless jerkins and jackets. The red horned skull grinned from their breasts and backs.

Last time he'd seen that attire, it was on corpses at Bitter Springs, torn apart by enough bullets to put down a bear.

What were they doing there? _'This isn't a delivery.'_ His mind went to the blaze north-west. Could it be? No, he'd seen the lasers. Heard the missiles' impact, how it silenced the howls of dogs and men in the wind. Khans used neither.

The newcomers and the Khans encircled Cook-Cook's gang. Boone lifted his finger from the trigger and waited. There. The crowd parted for Cook-Cook, a butcher apron tied over his barrel torso. He waved the flamethrower muzzle around; his gang and the newcomers alike took a step back.

Boone centered the crosshair just above the chieftain's heart. His trigger finger twitched. A perfect shot opportunity came and passed as Cook-Cook swiveled around and stopped, gaping.

Boone saw the deathclaw skull first, then the slack, bearded head mounted on a spear, too mangled and swollen to make out a face. Wearing the skull as a helmet and holding the latter high, the other Fiends chieftain strode up within striking distance of Cook-Cook and drove the butt of the spear into the ground. He turned around, offering the stunned Cook-Cook and the gang his back, and beckoned the crowd behind him.

A broken chainsaw was tossed at Cook-Cook's feet. He recoiled like it was a grenade. Boone's blood turned to ice.

That was Motor Runner's head. And the deathclaw-wearing chieftain pointing a golf club at Cook-Cook and his gang could only be Driver Nephi.

' _It's a coup.'_ One that already happened, he realized. _'This is just the last act.'_ Motor-Runner had led the Fiends to assault the NCR, and paid for the failure. Driver Nephi held everyone's attention as he swept his club between Cook-Cook and the fires to the north-west.

Hours after sundown, Violet's Hound Fortress, the gateway to Red Rock Canyon and the Khans' chem trade, was still burning.

Boone had no way to hear his words without Doe's microphone. It didn't matter. One after another, every member of Cook-Cook's gang dropped their weapons.

In a matter of seconds, Cook-Cook was alone. Like the first wounded coyote Boone had ever cornered, the Fiend lashed out.

Before he could light Nephi up like a bonfire, his legs went out from under him, and he crumpled under the weight of the tank on his back. The gun reports reached Boone a moment later. Two Khans fell on the thrashing chieftain. They kicked the flamethrower's muzzle away and tore the fuel tank from his back, then grabbed him and hauled him to his feet.

As they held Cook-Cook up between them and Driver Nephi caved his head in, Boone put the Fiends' new leader into his crosshair.

The line of fire was still clear. He could take the shot. Behead the Fiends' leadership for good. Motor-Runner and Cook-Cook were dead. Violet too, presumably. Nephi was the last bigshot name on Major Dhatri's hit-list, the last chieftain with enough pull to rally all the psychos and addicts under one banner.

Boone caressed the trigger. He'd planned his escape from two dozen people, not nearly a hundred. Not with Khan veterans thrown in the mix. Maybe he could still manage, but it was night, and they had the home terrain advantage. The first army checkpoint was at least a mile-long slog through the ruins.

He breathed out. Not too long ago, he wouldn't have hesitated. Nephi would already be dead, and he'd be running. If he hesitated in the field, he or someone he loved would die. The drill sergeants had broken it into him early during boot camp.

The words rang hollow now. Who was left? Cook-Cook's head would be his last farewell.

Boone's finger eased off the trigger again. He'd take his last shot soon. _'But not here. Not now.'_

Dawn was starting to break by the time Boone crawled a roundabout way to Cook-Cook's camp, both eyes out for stragglers and traps. He found only a radio set on the NCR public channel, garbling out a repeat of Henry Jamison's first interview as Crimson's Mojave CEO. A condemnation of his predecessor's murder, and a reassurance of support. Boone turned it off.

Driver Nephi had taken away Motor Runner's head and the chainsaw, as well as all the brahmins and supplies, but Cook-Cook's body was left to rot and feed the carrion. A couple of bullets dispatched the biggest bloatflies already nesting on it, leaving only burrowing worms and the smaller, harmless variety buzzing around him as he set down to work.

For all his reputation as a pyro, cannibal, and rapist, Cook-Cook had a fleshy baby face. A very recognizable one. Boone hacked at the neck with his machete. The blade ground and scraped against bone, vibrations traveling up his arm with every blow. When he was done, he sealed the trophy into the cooler bag and tied it across his back.

He was about to depart when he recalled Corporal Sterling's words, on the day Betsy and the new blood came back. His hand closed around soft, grimy cloth in Cook-Cook's back pocket.

Did the legionaries who kidnapped Carla take trophies too, afterward?

Boone spat on Cook-Cook's body and put the beret in his pocket.

The trip back to the New Vegas Clinic took him the best part of the morning. He crossed the army's new checkpoints on both sides of Highway 15, followed the fading tracks left by the Shi trucks, and skirted around McCarran and the hustle and bustle of fall farmers and Securitrons at the Sharecroppers. A Guard of Iron sergeant leading a perimeter patrol accepted to deliver the broken mag to Ranger Tanner for a handful of caps.

The sun was shining high on a crisp desert morning when Boone was admitted into the Clinic.

"You came back," Dr. Usanagi greeted him. She looked up from her clipboard to the cooler bag, and paled a little. "You actually went and did it. That's him?"

Boone nodded and unslung the package from his back. The bottom of the bag bulged tellingly in the middle. The short Shi doctor suppressed a flinch and had a guard take it from Boone with orders to stow it into an empty freezer. Soon, gagging sounds echoed down the corridor.

"Betsy?"

"The next group meeting is tonight. You can stick around and wait for her. Take a shower and a nap. There're free beds in the back." For a moment, he was sorely tempted. His limbs were starting to feel leaden. He shook his head, digging into his pocket.

The doctor sighed, "For the record, I do not approve of murder as therapy, but he deserved it. Maybe this will help Betsy, and others like her, to turn over a new leaf. That's hers?"

"He kept it as a trophy."

She turned the folded beret in her hands, grimacing. "I'll give it back to her, clean. You need to at least eat something before you leave. You look dead on your feet"

"I'll eat. Later." When he was farther away from McCarran and the Office. "Doctor."

"Wait." Boone turned back on the door, frowning behind his shades. "A veteran ranger stopped by yesterday to settle Ranger Stella's bill. Didn't know you'd already paid for it. Asked to pass along the Rangers' thanks, and to tell you that Stella's doing much better. Apparently, she's already been reassigned to light duty." Her expression conveyed just what she thought of that decision. "Couldn't tell me where, of course."

"The veteran. What was her name?"

Dr. Usanagi peered at him over the rim of her glasses. "I never said it was a woman. He introduced himself as Ranger Lewin, but he never took off his helmet. A giant of a ghoul."

He nodded, teeth unclenching, and walked out of the Clinic. His stomach ached with hunger, but he decided to put a little more ground between himself and McCarran. No reason to get the Clinic involved with the Office, when they came after him. Better be long gone, by then.

He started to walk south-east on a well-beaten path through the ruins, towards Lake Mead. His legs were heavy, and a familiar sense of malaise urged him to turn back. To think again. To grab a bottle and numb himself for a while. It was weaker than it used to be, back when Carla was alive.

Had it already been a month since Cottonwood Cove?

Boone wiped his shades. This was for Carla. For himself, too. He should have done it long ago. Settled his debt. She would still be alive, then. Safe, happy, and oblivious on the Strip. Better off for having never met him.

The finality of that resolution steeled his nerves more than any stiff drink. By midday, he was overlooking Lake Mead. Camp Golf's resort clung to the mouth of the Vegas Bay, a couple miles down south.

Miles across the lake, the hazy profile of Fortification Hill towered above the water. Boone adjusted his shades and started down the overlook, looking for a boat.

* * *

For a giant of a man, Garrett had always been very light on his feet. In McCarran's packed mess hall, that only mattered so much. Tanner tracked her mentor's approach by the trail of curses he caused in his wake, strident notes to the cheers and generally upbeat atmosphere.

Someone gagged, probably a greenhorn. She put down her spork and suppressed a grimace.

' _Canuck's going barefaced.'_ That always meant trouble. She flipped her notepad closed, putting narrowing down who the mole within Command was on hold, for the moment. She was going cross-eyed anyway after staring at the cipher all morning; ideally, she'd need someone behind bars or dead before the President and General Olivier sat down to treat with Mr. House.

' _C'mon Carrie, get that centurion to talk.'_

Garrett's ranger helmet claimed the spot in front of her. The white star on its side, a memento from his days as the riot control officer in Ashton, was freshly painted over a new dent in the helmet.

"Fiends?"

"Nelson," Garret said, hunched into a chair too small for him, no lunch tray to his name. If his flayed, red face didn't look like a skull straight out of a nightmare, she'd have chuckled. "The Legion has turned the whole area into a maze of mines, traps, and sharpshooters. Even Granite's being cautious." The dry, exposed muscles made his grimace look more like a snarl. "Violet's place was a cakewalk, by comparison."

"Well, shit. That's gonna be another meat grinder." A cheer of 'Fuck the tin-heads!' went up from a table, and more picked up the cry on the encore. Tanner didn't chuckle. For a moment there, Garrett looked ready to strangle someone. "Any trace of the Khans?"

He gave her a look. "Nothing new. Picked up their yurts and marched into the ruins. The only thing at Red Rock Canyon was Regis's body. They beat him to a pulp. And there goes the only chance of solving this without another bloodbath."

"Don't turn soft on me in your old age, now," she tried, but her stomach tied itself into ever tighter knots. "It's the Khans. They only learn the hard way."

"And swing back with a vengeance every time." He shook his head, stalling her with a raised palm. "Stow it. What about our lad?"

"He's vanished." The lie came out smoothly, even accusing. "The tracker stopped transmitting shortly after the incident at the Tops."

"And?"

"And nothing. We've lost him. Maybe House has him on ice, or maybe he just up and hightailed out of the Mojave. I won't tell you I told you, but I did."

Garrett sighed into his balled fists. His shoulders sagged. "And I had hoped…"

For a moment, he looked small, broken. The next, he was pinning her with a look that made her feel thirteen again, aiming his rifle down the firing range for the first time.

"Do you think I'm a fool, Helen? Look at me. Did you think I wouldn't figure you're an Agent, sooner or later?"

 _'How? Who told him?'_ Thoughts of playing dumb evaporated in the span of a long exhale. "Took you one hell of a long time, though."

Raw pain flickered across his face. "Since when?" A familiar stab tried to steal her breath, but she was long used to it.

"Three years and change. I volunteered after Baja." Then, more softly, "I know what the Divide did to you."

"You volunteered."

She mirrored him, elbows on the table, her voice low enough only he'd hear. "Do you think I'm blind? I've seen you cough blood. I know you visit Dr. Gunnarson. I don't want you to spend your last years on a battlefield, or see you killed by the Legion. The General will end this war faster than anyone else. All wars." She reached out and touched his forearm. "You've given more to the NCR than anyone else. You deserve to rest."

"Foolish brat." His voice hardened with his face. "Victory means nothing if you sacrifice your soul to get there. Navache is no different from the generals who pushed to annex Canada. His is not an NCR I want to live in for sure. It's not the NCR I've fought for!"

She grabbed his wrist. "Hush, Garrett. Not here." Conversations around them were going quiet, heads turning to see what the kerfuffle was all about. "Come on. We can continue this somewhere more private."

He made to respond but thought better of it. He strode off into the concourse instead, a withering glare sending many to study their trays. She caught up to him halfway to her quarters, but he barely glanced at her. The concourse echoed around them with the rumble and hiss of brakes; outside the panoramic window, the midday tram from the Strip slowed into the terminal building.

They didn't speak a word to each other until the door was firmly locked behind them, muffling McCarran's daily thrum to a faint hum.

"I know I've taught you better than this. Having people like Navache in power nearly made humanity extinct."

"'My country, right or wrong'," she quoted, sitting down on her bunk and staring at nothing. "'If right, to be _kept_ right; and if wrong, to be _set_ right'. I remember, Garrett. But we've tried your way for so long. Years. And what did we get? You're dying." She rubbed her face, feeling every early line crease. "As long as the Brotherhood, the Legion, or anyone else like them is threatening us, we can't afford that kind of naïveté. We just can't anymore."

Garrett didn't speak for a long minute. He just stared at her, his face undecipherable. Then, "He's boasted about taking High Elder Maxson captive. Not one word about anyone else. Anyone. No mention of prisoners to deliver to Tibbets. No children and teens tagged for re-education."

Part of her truly envied him, for holding onto his values for so many decades. Centuries, even. _'And the result is killing him from the inside.'_

"We've hunted down Navarro's hardliners for decades on the same grounds," she said slowly. She fancied she could see the words bounce off his thick skull. "Even the kids. Ideas and dogmas can be more dangerous than any nuke. You taught me that too."

"That goes both ways, Helen," he drawled. "We used to stand for something, back in Tandi's day. Before the Scourge. Before Navache."

"The government hired mercs and sanctioned sabotage to make Vault City fold in, back in Tandi's day," she spat back. "She signed the treaties with the New Reno Families. That's just how war and politics work. How they always have, and always will." She craned her neck to meet his gaze. "The General never put civilians into slave camps. He's just killed Brotherhood."

"Do you even hear yourself? You're condoning the murder of children and the helpless. Half the camp is celebrating, for God's sake! What have we come to?" He raked a hand through his tuft of stringy hair, frustrated enough to tear it off. "How is that any different from the Legion? Gas, rather than crosses and collars? How is that any different from the Enclave?"

"We didn't start the Scourge. They did. They bombed the Congress first."

"'They'? Goddamnit, Helen! Some of those kids weren't even born back then."

She bolted up then, even if she didn't reach up to his chin. "And how many never did, because of the Scourge?! Because your Follower friends didn't contribute their know-how to end the war early but cowered behind their pacifism?" Garrett stood very still. "It's because of this kind of talk that Hanlon's Chief, and not you."

She regretted the words the moment she said them, but it was too late. Garrett didn't even flinch. She couldn't remember him looking this sad, even back when he still had half of a working face.

"I don't envy him," he said, at last, unlocking the door. "An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind, Helen. It's our choice whether we rise above it or not. I hope you'll see it, before it's too late."

And he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. Tanner took a steadying breath and splashed some water in her face. The woman in the cracked mirror could have been her mother.

Someone rapped on her door.

"Garrett?" she asked, chastising herself with her next breath.

"No, ma'am. It's Sergeant Colville. Guard of Iron." Of course. Too low. "I was given a message for you."

It wasn't from Hildern, nor Granite. The puzzled non-com handed her a magazine and took his leave. She turned the thing in her hands, frowning. Too light for C4, or Semtex. The metal was bent in the middle, and she was fairly sure it wouldn't lock into any rifle. A single .308 cartridge was slotted on top.

When her thumb brushed over the faint etching on the case, doubt turned to certainty, and the bottom of her stomach fell. She'd told Dr. Hildern this would happen. Carrie had too. But the jumped-up egghead had to have it his way.

Breathing hard through her nose, she examined the cartridge. The .308 had no primer, she noticed after a moment. Hollowed out. She carefully extracted a piece of paper, covered in a couple of neat lines of cipher.

 _Khans joined the Fiends. Driver Nephi new leader, killed Motor-Runner and Cook-Cook._

 _I'm out._

 _B._

"This is crazy," she said, then hurried out of the door. Colonel Hsu and Major Granite needed to know, ASAP. Dr. Hildern could go hang, for all she cared.

She wasn't halfway through the concourse, the vibrations from the tram picking up speed on the monorail a familiar comfort, when the whole base shook once. The windows exploded, showering her with razor-sharp glass. Her last thought was that she should have worn a helmet.

Next thing she knew, someone was shaking her. A quick check-up told her that she was on her back. A whistle was bouncing around her skull. Blood dribbled into her eyes, stinging and restoring a measure of clarity. She wiped it away and let the soldier help her to a sitting position, glass cracking with every movement.

When she looked outside the window that had just tried to murder her, she blinked. The sight didn't change. Where the monorail used to wrap around the terminal building, melted rails ran into a gaping void. The tram cars were gutted pancakes of slag fifty feet below, vomiting flames and corpses in every direction.

It took her a moment to realize it wasn't a whistle she was hearing, but the blare of alarm sirens.


	26. 23) Charlie Foxtrot, Andromache

**Missing in Action 23) Charlie Foxtrot, Andromache**

 _My thanks to_ _ **PartyPat22, ScrimshawPen, DmCrebel25, theAsh0, WilSquare, Aegon Blacksteel, Winding Warpath, IAmtheAble (x3), Pudong (x2), JSailer (x2)**_ _for their feedback and support._

* * *

"Grandma made this for you, Becky."

Kana accepted the poncho from Lily's leathery hands and put it on. The bighorner wool reached almost to her knees and took the edge off the biting chill that had swept over Jacobstown in the morning, ushering in more orange clouds from the Divide.

Ashton and New Hopeville, once. Her home. She basked in the nostalgia for a moment, then focused on the gift and the kind nightkin's expectant expression.

"Don't you like it, dearie? Grandma tried to make it just like your friend's."

Kana's lips twitched at the thought of what he would say. The color and pattern were completely off.

"It's just what I needed, grandma." She sat back down on the bench the two of them shared under Jacobstown's billboard, the best spot to observe the main gate and the road. "How's Leo doing these days?"

Lily huffed, already hooking a new strand of yarn into a hook with a steady hand Kana always envied. _'Especially now.'_ She carefully flexed her stiff right hand and watched the paler scar tissue from the electrical burn stretch. She wore her Pip-Boy on her left now, the limb still too tender to support the extra weight.

"That bad boy's been quiet, dearie, but he's angry with the people who've hurt Becky. Very angry." Lily nodded. "Grandma is too."

Kana studied her. As she created stitch after stitch, Lily began to hum a tune and pop her lips. The nightkin showed none of the signs of snapping into her alter-ego Calamity had instructed her about in the previous week, during her rehab sessions.

" _Dr. Henry's treatment makes the tells more obvious, but be careful with her,"_ the ghoul jack-of-all-trades had warned her repeatedly _, "There's only so much it can do, and Leo was always a tough cookie."_

"Thanks for coming, grandma. It means a lot."

"Grandma misses little Jimmy too, Becky," Lily said, squeezing her shoulder gingerly.

Kana gave the hand a squeeze and returned to her vigil as Jacobstown bustled with activity around her. The _click-clack_ of Lily's knitting rhymed with the hammering and hissing from the forges and ammo presses spitting out gear and the armored plates that went to reinforce Jacobstown's perimeter.

She spotted Marcus on his rounds a couple of times, either Neil or Keene always beside him. What little of him she saw these days, he was always wearing Paladin Jacob's power armor, and today was no different. She waved, but he didn't stop. Kana sighed.

' _Big boy's still sulking.'_ Marcus had been beyond annoyed at her since Lily said she'd come along. Her reassurances that it was only until Westside came within view, and that she'd send the nightkin back at the first sign of an NCR patrol, assuaged him little.

It probably had to do with her accepting the dog's offer as soon as she could trudge out of the gates without collapsing first.

' _By the time I'm back, he'll be over it,´_ she told herself. He always was.

"Someone's coming, dearie," Lily said, tilting her head. "Maybe it's your friends?"

Kana stood, wincing when her sides complained, and squinted at the road as she trudged to the gate. Two figures were cresting the last rise then, one of them a beanpole of a man with combed blond hair and wearing a familiar white coat. Kana's surprise turned into worry as the tall man stopped in his tracks, while the shorter woman started jogging to the gate.

' _What are_ they _doing here?'_

The super mutants on watch levelled their HMGs at the newcomers. The younger woman wearing abused Vault blues and a fitting flight jacket didn't seem to notice. She waved her flight officer cap, shouting.

"Boss! Boss, it's me -" she trailed off, freezing as she finally noticed the sentinels. "Huh, could you please, you know, lower them? Lommy? Theodore? It's me, Janet! You haven't forgotten 'bout me yet, right?"

"Sorry, girl," Theodore drawled back. "We got our orders. Nobody gets in without Marcus's leave."

Kana rolled her eyes and trudged through the gates, ignoring the two mutants' looks. The road sloped a little, slippery with snow half-melted by the previous night's rain, but if she let that daunt her, she'd never make the trip to Westside.

"Arcade, stop playing the scarecrow and get down here!" she shouted at her fellow Follower, still standing a ways back. "They won't shoot you."

"Forgive me if I doubt that!" the tall man answered. She chuckled. It had been too long since she heard him shout at her. "I'm very comfortable up here, thank you very much."

"They could still hit you if they wanted," she said, before turning to her former employee, who was trying and failing to get a word in. "Janet, why are you here? Where's Jack?"

Kana stumbled and almost fell when the younger woman glomped her. "Oh Boss, where have you been? Things have been terrible at Nellis since you were there last! Mother Pearl and Loyal have gone bonkers!"

"I was shot," she said drily. "Can you –" Janet drew back, embarrassed. "What do you mean 'bonkers'?"

Janet wrung out her hat, sneaking glances at the armed mutants. Kana snapped her fingers, even as she kept an eye on Arcade. Christ, he looked ready to bolt. "Eyes on me, Janet. What happened?"

"You – You were late, Boss. Too late. Another caravan delivered the solar panels and spare parts, enough to last the Boomers years, and their boss's been filling Mother Pearl and Loyal's head for weeks with all kinds of ideas about that bomber they all dream about, and they listen to him!" Janet gulped for air, then looked down. "He makes my skin crawl. Raquel's and Jack's too, but Raquel's the loudest voice left against him and Jack couldn't leave Lindsay, so they sent me to find you."

"Did he give a name?"

"He insisted we just call him the Good Man." A chill that had little to do with the temperature shot down Kana's spine. "Boss? You have to come and fix things! You -"

"A short guy in his forties? Sharp features?" Janet nodded, inching back. "Always wears shades?" Another quick nod.

Kana ran a hand down her face. How? How had he known to slip in so quickly?! Where did he even find the solar panels on his side of the Colorado? Contreras's bribe had cost her a metaphorical kidney, and that was nothing compared to shipping the parts up from New Adytum, but she'd covered her tracks!

' _Unless –'_ Kana bit her lip. Had Miguel, Kreger and the other associates of the Westside-Ashton Co-Op sold her parts to his agents, believing her dead and wanting to cut their losses? But how did he know she had any in the first place?

"What's the news?" Marcus asked, startling her. She hadn't heard him approach. At the gate, Theodore and Lommy held their machineguns across their chest. "Janet, long time no see. Kana?"

"Inculta has the ear of the Boomers," she whispered. The math ran in her head as Marcus cursed softly. It'd have taken Janet at least a week to get to Jacobstown, and that was only if she already knew where to find her. Probably much longer then, depending on when she met Arcade. Was Raquel even still alive at this point, or had she suffered a tragic accident? Was there any chance to turn things around?

"I need to go," she said, trudging back to the town and berating herself even as familiar words justifying yet another delay started to pop up in her mind. _'I can stop on the way to Nellis. Let 'em know I'm alive and see David. Just for a few hours.'_ Marcus's arm barred her way. "What?"

"You're in no condition to make that trip. Nellis is too far."

"I'll take breaks if I have to. I'll have Arcade, and Janet, and Lily can carry me." _'And the dog too, hopefully.'_ She met his beady eyes, refusing to walk around the arm. "There's no time for this, Marcus. The Boomers sit on the largest depot of explosives and artillery in the Mojave. He can't have it. He can't."

* * *

She was fastening the holster with Albert's old .223 pistol under her poncho, spreading the weight away from her wound, when someone knocked at the door of the bungalow she used as emergency storage for her caravan.

Arcade strode in, peering over his shoulder, and quickly shut the door behind him. His chiseled, handsome face sported a few new lines and shadows, and he looked like he'd lost some weight.

"I think I'll never get used to so many muties in one place," he breathed out, straightening. "So, _Thanatos_ has come knocking on your door again? How are you feeling?"

She bit back her first response, checking she'd put everything in her sling pack instead. "Better every day. Did you get my letter?"

"I woke up with that dog slobbering all over my face. In my tent. At the Fort. My God, he stank." Arcade huffed, pacing, the floor creaking slightly with every step. He wasn't looking at her. "I asked around for a bit before they started to look at me oddly, and nobody saw a dog with gigantism. Red Lucy had it happen in her bedroom, while she had company. She wasn't thrilled. I haven't heard from Raul, but I assume he got it too." He took off his glasses, wiping them furiously. "Another one of your friends from the Divide?"

"Later." She waited, but he busied himself with those damned glasses. "Does Julie know you're here?"

"Oh, the new Auto-Docs can fill in for me, and have better bedside manners. Julie has fallen in bed with Lucifer. She'll barely notice I'm gone." At her quizzical look, he elaborated. "Mr. House made her an offer she could have refused but didn't. It's a long story, and there'll be plenty of time on the return trip, so -"

"Arcade?" Something flickered across his face. She recognized that expression and her guts became one burning knot. He had it every time he had to speak to the relatives of a deceased patient. "Arcade, how's David?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "You better sit for this." She didn't want to, but complied, his tone striking old strings from back when she was a freshman just out of Tibbets' and he the youngest student tutor at the Boneyard University. He put his backpack on the ground and dug around inside.

She could tell he found what he was searching for when he hesitated. Kana's heart skipped a beat when he produced a stuffed animal.

Mr. Rawr was a misshapen thing abused from being dragged around for too long. Once upon a time, it may have resembled a deathclaw, or so her husband insisted. She'd added a new patch every time she stopped by at La Casa Madrid.

She couldn't remember David without it, even when he was just a mewling newborn.

She stared at it, her shaking hands were numb as they dug into the threadbare terrycloth. "Tell me."

"Sarah tucked him into bed one night. The next morning, he'd disappeared."

"A four year old doesn't disappear. He was taken. They took him." She met his gaze and what she saw made her stomach fall. "How long?"

"Just before I left, a couple of days after the dog did his rounds." She bit down on her knuckles, teeth drawing blood. Arcade grabbed her wrist, forcing her to look up again. "Kana, Red Lucy has her best hunters on it."

"… But?"

He sighed and produced a folded slip of paper from his pocket. Someone had crumpled it and then smoothed it out again, several times. The words were still legible in a neat calligraphy.

" _It's striking how much your baby boy resembles his father._

 _For old times' sake, he'll remain on your side of the Colorado until the Saturnalia celebrations begin._

 _Your dear friend,_

 _A Good Man."_

Her vision swam and blurred, no matter how she tried to blink it furiously into focus. It felt like blades were carving her heart out.

The Legion had her son. Vulpes had taken him. Put a collar around his neck and a crimson cross on his clothes. He - He'd be punished every time he cried, but he would continue because he didn't understand, because he was terrified of new places he couldn't comprehend, so they'd punish him again. And again. But they'd keep him alive until Saturnalia, and then -

Arcade was shaking her, his voice soft. " –hunters will find him. They'll bring him back."

"No, they won't find him. Not in time," she said, the certainty physically more painful than any wound. It was enough to get her on her feet, Mr. Rawr in a death grip. "It's my son. Vulpes wants _me_ to come looking." _'And leave him free to advance his plans undisturbed. Goddamnit!'_

"Kana –"

"He said Saturnalia." Her voice shook as she tied Mr. Rawr to her belt and grabbed her sling pack. "T-That's in less than a month from now. You know how the celebrations begin."

Arcade's eyes widened, the floorboard creaking as he hurried after her. "The Romans sacrificed _cattle_ , not –"

"This is the Legion! You think Caesar cares about historical precedent? Because I'm not betting my son's life on it."

* * *

Marcus's last attempt at convincing her to desist met deaf ears. He still had a few more words of advice for her – mostly to steer clear from La Madre mountain and the dog in equal measures – but he didn't keep her long.

She didn't tell him about David's kidnapping. She didn't need his pity now, and he'd made it clear he could offer little help.

As soon as Arcade was done with his quick visit to the main lodge, they hit the mountain road.

Lily led their short column, knitting kit replaced by a super sledge, eyes scanning the early lengthening shadows. The clouds from the Divide rolled above them, threatening rain, and the nightkin had better night vision than any human.

Janet brought up the rear more out of lack of anywhere else to be than choice. Kana felt her staring holes into her back. Her former employee, now happily married to her Boomer sweetheart, was waiting for the answer that'd probably doom her new family and threaten to bury the vision Kana and her husband shared again. Maybe for good this time.

' _But what good is it, without David?'_

Her recovering body set a pace so frustratingly slow that it took over an hour for Jacobstown to disappear in the forest. Another hour swept by at the same pace, and the dog didn't poke his head out of the shrubbery. It was plenty of time for Kana's thoughts to turn on herself. Janet's unwavering stare didn't help.

What right did she have to write off the Boomers, and all the lives their alliance with the Legion would endanger? Wasn't it her moral duty to act when she could – _'Maybe' –_ still make a difference?

Arcade fell in step with her then, sparing her from having to answer her conscience.

"You can throw your foulest repertoire at me, but I have to ask. How do you know he's telling the truth?" Kana drew in a breath, nearly biting her tongue. Arcade continued after but a moment's hesitation. "Did it cross your mind that he's lying? That, maybe -"

"Don't say it!" she hissed. Lily glanced back, leathery face scowling, but Kana shook her head.

"Then how are you sure?" Arcade whispered after minutes of uncompanionable silence, one eye to the nightkin. "Please, I can't help you if I don't see the whole picture."

She studied her former mentor and oldest friend. _'Can I still trust you?'_ She didn't voice the question, but the oily guilt didn't silence her doubts, either.

Someone had tattled to Vulpes Inculta: about her deals with the Boomers and about David. The list of those who knew about both was short and Arcade was at the top of it… but Arcade also despised the Legion and what they stood for with a fervor very few could match. That would have to do.

"He said 'For old times' sake'," she explained, picking up the pace a little. Her side and legs complained, but trudging was maddening. "We never shared 'old times'. That's his last mocking jab at my husband."

"Was he -?"

"Our deal, Arcade," she said slowly. "Have I ever asked you more about your father and his old partners?"

"No, you haven't." The minutes crawled by, slower than their snail-like progress. Arcade stole glances at her every so often and then insisted they take a break when she couldn't suppress her labored breathing. Stubbornness and a grip on Mr. Rawr forced her legs to trudge on for another fifteen minutes before she had to surrender to the evidence that two weeks of rehab weren't enough.

Before she could ask Lily to carry her, Arcade had her sitting on a relatively dry patch of ground, back propped against a tree, and she was nursing a bottle of water with dissolved sugar and potassium.

She was halfway through it before he broke the silence.

"Don't take this as a bargaining chip, but I didn't come here just for you. I had to check on Henry. Some of those old friends you mentioned, they've dropped off the map recently, on top of everything else that's happened. He's fine, by the way. The cold is preserving him and his attitude."

"He was one of them?" She'd seen very little of the cagey, obsessive scientist over the years, and technically being his patient didn't change that.

"The connection is tangential, but you could say that, yes," he obfuscated, checking that Janet was out of earshot. The younger woman was sulking by the road, deflecting the sweater Lily tried to force on her with overwhelming concern. When did she even knit that?

' _She'd make a stellar grandma.'_ "And the reason you're telling me now is?"

"Who knows. Maybe because you're the only person I know that won't denounce me to the Office." He ran a hand through his hair, then tilted his head towards La Madre's peak. "Marcus mentioned the trespassers that have him worried?" Kana nodded. "There's one of _their_ bunkers hidden up the mountain's side. A vertibird fueling station that wasn't touched in decades, until half of the old team disappeared. The timing can't be a coincidence."

"Maybe some old timers got together for one last hurrah against the filthy mutants and didn't invite the rest," she offered bitterly, but her thoughts went to the Enclave assassin who stole the Chip and Derek from her. Had he used the bunker as a base, before Mr. House wrapped him around his finger?

She shook her head. Derek, House, Ross, the Nursery. They didn't matter until David was back in her arms.

Arcade gave her an odd look. "There aren't _that_ many of them, and the only one up to it would be Orion Moreno anyway," he huffed. "Last time I saw him, he was so senile he couldn't get past Westside without getting turned around."

Janet yelped then, muffled by the wool sweater tossed into her face. Lily grabbed her super sledge, but to Kana's relief, wasn't about to smash the woman's unappreciative head in.

"Someone's coming, dearie. Stay very close to Grandma."

Arcade was helping her back to her feet when the tall man melted into view. The high-collared coat he wore, complete with matching gloves and thick boots, was a greyish-black hue Kana couldn't quite place and made it hard to distinguish him from his surroundings. For being unarmed – or looking like it - he didn't appear fazed by the straw-hatted hulk of purple muscles barring his approach.

He was smiling, the expression slightly off on his handsome face. His eyes zeroed on Kana.

"Good afternoon. My name is Harkness. Doctor Delgado, Doctor Gannon, my master would like a word with you. This way, please."

Kana blinked. Arcade looked as flabbergasted as she felt.

"Yeah, no, we'll pass," Arcade said, fishing for words. "Thank you."

Harkness made a come-hither gesture with his finger. "This doesn't need to get complicated. In fact, it'd be in your best interest to comply quickly, Doctor Gannon."

Snow crunched underfoot from deeper into the forest around them. A branch snapped, and Kana caught a flicker of pale movement in the corner of her eye. Janet was looking at her, the younger woman torn between confusion and terror.

" _Run,_ " Kana mouthed.

She didn't know if Arcade heard them too. Like hers, his hand was inching to the plasma defender under his coat. "Care to enlighten me?"

"Orion Moreno's health has taken a turn for the worse recently," Harkness said. "A stubborn relic. We are also currently lacking in doctors willing to look after a former Enclave soldier."

"You're the bad boy that hurt Becky," Lily growled, her voice deepening.

"No Lily, stop! He's not him!"

Harkness barely glanced at Lily, his posture relaxed. "Keep the leash on your pet, Doctor Delgado."

"Don't call her that!" Kana snapped, reaching out as if to grab Lily. Janet was edging away, ashen-faced, lips trembling. Men in pale, chrome armor and full helmets she didn't recognize stood like statues among the trees or kneeled. All had blocky, white energy rifles aimed at them. "Lily, stay calm! Everything's alright! They just want to talk to us! Talk!"

Lily shifted her grip on the super sledge, her head turning with her beady eyes, trunk-like legs coiled to spring. Kana started to raise her hands, palms spread out, urging Arcade to do the same with a look.

"See? It's all good." She looked at Harkness then, but he didn't put a word in. If anything, he looked mildly curious, arms folded behind his back. "Put it down, Lily. Please."

Heavy steps crunched the thin snow behind her and a freezing hand grabbed her gun-arm, twisting it painfully. Kana gasped and grabbed at it only to feel cold metal joints under her fingers. Another chilly hand grabbed her under the armpit, nearly lifting her off her feet.

" _Let go of Becky, Tin-Men_!"

Blue laser beams lit up the gloom. Janet screamed, Arcade threw himself to the ground, shielding his head, but Kana could only watch as Lily – no, Leo roared, charging to the rescue. Lasers tore into him before he took three loping steps, burning and carving and melting.

Leo stumbled to a knee, face a rictus of rage, legs a scorched mess. He was so close Kana could touch him, if only she weren't pinned. Then Harkness was in the nightkin's face. A blue light flashed and hissed. Purple hands dropped into the steaming snow, taking the super sledge with them.

Lily was back, staring blearily at her cauterized wrists.

"Grandma only wanted to –" The blue light flashed again as Harkness's wrist flickered. Lily's bald head rolled off her neck, but her body remained upright.

Kana choked down a scream, but another hand seized her by the back of her head like a vise. They forced her down on her knees as more grabbed at Arcade. Another figure in white knelt stiffly in front of her to remove her gun, ammo belt, and Mr. Rawr, patting her down with methodic precision.

Up close, the pale clothes under their armor turned out to be plastic and ceramics. Behind the eye-slits of their helmet were spinning eyes of an unnatural electrical blue.

Harkness toppled Lily's headless corpse with a light push.

"I told you not to make things complicated. Make the bodies disappear," he said. Four of the white machines hauled Lily's body and head past her and into the forest. His words only registered when another machine passed by, dragging Janet by an arm. The other, and anything below her belly, were gone.

Kana bit the inside of her cheek until it bled, staring at the steaming, blackened track in the snow as the machine vanished into the forest with the young woman.

She knew better than to ask why. The coldness in Harkness's eyes was eerily familiar.

' _They are acceptable collateral damage,'_ she recalled starkly from another life. _'Don't lose sight of the objective. Again.'_

"Who are you?" she spat out at his back.

"The true Legacy," he said. Her heart jumped up in her throat. "Come now. The other should arrive soon."


	27. 24) Charlie Foxtrot, Lex Talionis, pt I

**Missing in Action 24) Charlie Foxtrot, Lex Talionis pt. I**

 _ **My thanks to Paladin Bailey, DmCrebel25, ScrimshawPen, Master Doom Maker (x2), PartyPat22, Aegon Blacksteel, colstrent (x2), WilSquare, Winding Warpath, Pudong, Goldey, JSailer, Anknownymous (x5)** for their feedback, critiques, and for bouncing ideas._

 _This chapter should have included another scene, but a month and a half has already passed since the last update, so here you go._

* * *

The clock was striking ten p.m. by the time Tanner walked out the OSI office, leaving the smell of spilled blood and the confabulating of eggheads behind.

She nodded at the two Iron Guardsmen posted at the access corridor and ventured into the terminal proper. Doubled patrols covered the doors and manned the inner sandbag barricades, and she knew tonight and for many nights to come, McCarran would be gearing up to repel a direct attack. Colonel's orders.

A few soldiers hang around the busted carcass of the decorative plane that once dominated the lobby. The monorail explosion had shaken it loose from the cables holding it aloft, and she figured it'd be a long time before it, or any like it, was lifted again. A private nudged her sergeant, and then the entire squad was looking at her. She didn't need to meet their eyes or hear their words to see the blame and accusations written all over their faces.

Everyone at base lost at least a friend in the explosion, or in the patrols that were capped, their routes leaked by the mole. The investigation had her stationed at McCarran for far too long, and Black Ones didn't go unnoticed. People would have put two and two together and figured out she was investigating the leaks.

Dr. Hildern's scathing words rang in her head every step of the way to the interrogation room. The regional director of the OSI knew how to hit home, and he had been still shaken by the attempt at his life. Made by a duo of mercenaries that had been selected for one of his fool's errands, of all people.

They'd been vetted, but the gutted wreck of the monorail and the close call with poison in Colonel Hsu's tea showed that the Office's methods needed to be updated.

Tanner gritted her teeth. It had been her goddamned job to find any mole before a scenario like this turned into reality, and she'd failed. Spectacularly so, as Hildern stressed time and again. Now, McCarran was cut off from the Strip, another lifeline rescinded; dozens of dead soldiers and NCR citizens had been consumed in the explosion, were crushed under the tram cars, or burned to death shortly after.

It was pure chance that the Colonel's teacup had been knocked from his desk by the explosion and that one of the guards' dog had licked it and died from it. A few moments later, and McCarran's leadership would have been beheaded.

And it was all on her. That stung more than the stitched wound on her forehead and the half-dozen shallow cuts from the glass, pressing against the inside of the riot helmet she wore again.

At least Garret hadn't been among that number, the Canuck's distrust for trains and the Strip his saving grace.

That sliver of relief withered in her chest when she saw the two soldiers carrying a stretcher walk out of the interrogation room. Her legs didn't stop, carrying her beyond the soldiers cordoning off the area. She halted the carriers with a gesture, her breath caught in her throat.

Carrie was pale, jaw slack and hanging half-open, head tilted at a painful angle. Even if they'd closed her friend's eyes, Tanner couldn't fool herself to think she was sleeping: her jacket was one blotch of dark, dry blood, riddled with bullet holes.

First the Morales. Esteban was killed by Fiends shortly after the NCRCF's liberation, and Christine by Gloria Van Graff. Now Carrie. She needed to write to her husband and son, back home. But what would she tell them? 'She was gunned down by some overzealous greenhorn, sorry'?

Tanner killed the part of her that wanted to bite at her knuckles. Her hands remained at her side, too: Carrie's eyelids would be stuck already, and her position was already compromised enough without showing more signs of partiality.

The time to grieve would come later. But first, she'd have answers from Captain Curtis.

She nodded to the carriers and tore her eyes away as they marched on, then turned to the corporal standing by the door to the interrogation room. This was where she and Carrie had double-teamed on Sgt. Boone, headache and loose end that he was.

Later.

"Captain Curtis is inside, soldier?"

"He is, ma'am. Interrogating the only witness, ma'am. He left orders, saying not to disturb him."

The witness? Tanner almost growled. It took a lot not to push past him and into the room. Almost more than she could bring to bear.

"Tell him Ranger Tanner is here to see him now."

The door swung open again then. A willowy soldier with a plain, dour face drew up short on the doorsill. Specks of dry blood blemished his armor and uniform, and more marred his callused hands.

He recovered first and snapped to attention. "Ma'am."

She had to stop herself from wringing his neck there and then.

"At ease, Crenshaw," another voice said from behind the private. "Let the Ranger in and stand with Corporal White. I'll get back to you soon."

Crenshaw took up watch on the other side of the door with a contrite pose, rifle in hand and never meeting her eyes. She could almost concede to his expression of guilt, but with Carrie's blood still all over him, it took some effort not to draw her Sequoia on him.

His face memorized, Tanner stepped into what had been Carrie Boyd's uncontested domain for years, her workspace and vocation both. She'd been here only hours before, on her way to the mess hall, and shared a smoke with Carrie in-between interrogation sessions with the Centurion, Silus.

The blast door to the inner interrogation room was wide ajar now, a violation that Carrie would have never allowed, whether the room was occupied or not. Beyond the door, the outline of a body was framed in a pool of dried blood on the tiles. Through the one-way glass, the peeling plaster behind the interrogation chair was sprayed with blood, but Silus's body had already been taken away, armor and all. The holo-recorder sat where it always did between the door and the glass, headphones hanging from hooks at either side, but the red light said it was switched off.

Captain Curtis stood behind Carrie's desk, officer cap on his head and shirt sleeves rolled up. He was pouring over a large piece of paper rolling up at the edges and scrawled with schematics, scrawling his own notes on a clipboard. A smattering of items was bunched up at one edge of a desk, among them boxes of Abraxo Cleaner, a conductor, a fission battery, and several tubes of brand new wonderglue. Behind her helmet, Tanner's eyes narrowed.

By the time Curtis' acknowledged her, she'd walked up to the table and saluted. Even upside down, the schematics he was examining confirmed her suspicion.

"Lieutenant Boyd would have never sabotaged the monorail," she said, trying not to seethe.

"That's not what the evidence says, Ranger." The Captain flipped through the papers on the clipboard and turned it around without looking up. He pointed at a signature in the visitor register log for the monorail maintenance teams. "Here it says she went in alone, just last night. And then, just before the monorail was blown up, she walked in here, switched off the recorder, and executed the Centurion in the other room."

She peered at the signature and her mouth twisted in a grim line. It was either Carrie's or a damn good forgery.

"And then Private Crenshaw killed her."

"He told her to stand down, and she tried to shoot him too." He tilted his head to the door she'd just stepped through. Up and to the side of it, a new bullet hole decorated the peeling plaster. "The ballistics match. Boyd's sidearm fired two shots, one into Silus, the other at Crenshaw. Sounds like self-defense to me."

"And of course, we only have his word for it now."

"I do, Ranger. There's no us here." Curtis fixed her with a heavy look. "There's a reason the investigation wasn't given to you. You're too emotionally involved. You thought Boyd was your friend, and it made you blind to the threat she posed until it was too late."

Behind her back, her hands curled up into fists. She had considered it, she told herself. More than once, she'd doubted her friend when evidence of a spy's presence came up, but then pushed it aside every time.

It was Carrie. She had no reason to sabotage the war effort. She picked service on her country's frontier over a cushy job near her family.

She told Curtis as much.

"No reason that we know of yet, you mean." The Captain's voice was flinty and worn. "The evidence speaks for itself. Even without Crenshaw's testimony, these were found stashed in her locker." He slapped the schematics and pointed at the Abraxo cleaner. "Even an amateur could craft a bomb with these schematics. Not to mention Boyd had unique access to both Colonel Hsu's office and the OSI offices and screening procedures."

Curtis started to roll up the schematics and gather his notes and the evidence in a bag. Tanner recognized the dismissal and promptly ignored it.

"House needs the monorail as much as we do, if not more, and the Legion doesn't use women," she said.

"There are plenty of people in California who will benefit when news of this spreads back home, especially with the elections coming up next year. Maybe she was blackmailed. She does have a family, as you said." Captain Curtis shrugged on his officer jacket and hiked the bag of evidence up his shoulder, schematics rolled up under his other armpit. "Or maybe she was following orders you weren't privy to, Agent."

Tanner remained still, suppressing any instinctive reaction. It wasn't like Captain Curtis wasn't in a position to put two and two together and figure out her association to the Office, or Carrie's. Colonel Hsu already knew, after all.

"Say your piece, sir."

"General Navache would benefit the most if this mess was laid at General Oliver's feet, and thus at the President's. Meanwhile, he's riding the success at Lost Hills and parading High Elder Maxson through the Core states. Food for thought, Ranger."

Tanner glanced at the interrogation room and at the switched-off holo-recorder as she stepped aside to let Curtis move to the door. Her gut told her something was off, and her memory itched. The scenario Curtis pictured reeked of arrogance and relied on too many coincidences for a single person to pull it off.

Even if she killed Crenshaw, who'd been standing guard at the door, how could she expect to walk out of the Camp alive?

If Carrie had been desperate because her family was threatened, then maybe... No, she'd shared her last cigarette with Carrie only hours before. She hadn't looked desperate then, only overworked and frustrated at the pointlessness of Silus' gloating and taunts.

She couldn't have missed that too, Tanner told herself. She'd known and worked with Carrie for years, even before they were selected for the Office.

"Permission to search the scene, sir?"

Curtis's steps stopped at the door. "Granted, but Corporal White will stay with you the entire time. Anything you find, you'll deliver to my office, understood?"

"Yessir."

Corporal White didn't say anything as Tanner examined the holo-recorder, trying to gather her thoughts. Some half-remembered memory skirted at the edge of her mind when she looked at the recorder, but she couldn't put a finger on it, so she moved on. Practice and steely discipline consigned Carrie's slack face to the back of her mind.

Like with Christine, the time for grief would come later.

Curtis was right, Carrie had easy access to all of the targets: the Colonel, the OSI offices, and the monorail. But if Carrie had crafted the bomb, she'd have never left the evidence behind. As one of the base's chief MPs, she knew better than most how the investigation would play out. Did she want to be found out, then? Had she really never planned to live past the day?

If so, had she really been that blind to her friend's resolve?

Tanner shook her head and walked into the interrogation room. The pool of blood was large. Carrie had been laying there for a while, her chest riddled by 5.56 shots fired from Crenshaw's service rifle. The private must have had quick reflexes too, if Carrie already had her gun out after executing the Centurion.

She stopped, turning the information on her head. That didn't add up. Why Silus? Why not target other officers for maximum chaos? Sabotaging the monorail, killing Hsu, and stealing whatever the OSI was working on - or just getting rid of Hildern - could loosely fit some political scheme within the NCR itself. Maybe even the Iron General's.

Tanner forced herself to contemplate the option. The Mojave had been Oliver's sandbox since after Operation Sunburst, and the lynchpin of Kimball's political career. As it had made them, it could unmake them. But would the Iron General potentially endanger the entire campaign for a political gain?

She wasn't surprised when she didn't have a clear-cut answer. The OSI had been targeted too, yes, but with Iron Guardsmen always on watch, Hildern had never been in any real danger. The good doctor wasn't even wounded by the mercs and as far as she knew, they didn't touch his research, whatever that was.

Could Curtis be onto something? Was this all a ruse? A political play?

"You alright, ma'am? Found anything?"

Tanner waved White off. She couldn't rule it out, but using Carrie, who could be linked to the Office fairly easily, was sloppy, and could backfire easily, as Curtis had just shown.

The Iron General she had met was ruthless, uncompromising, and decisive, but not sloppy.

She crouched by the chair Silus had been shackled to by hands and feet. She imagined him sitting there as Carrie pulled out her sidearm and fired at him, point blank. The chair was riveted to the floor so only his head would have jerked back as his body slumped. Hearing the bang, or seeing it through the one-way glass, Private Crenshaw would have rushed in and confronted Carrie about it.

But why? Why so brazen? The question circled in her mind like a cazadore. If Carrie was the mind and hand behind it all, killing Silus herself was the riskiest part of it. Why not poison his food and drinks too, as she'd supposedly tried with the Colonel? If she had, she could have disappeared in the chaos long before the gates were shut. Or gone and made sure the Colonel was dead if she intended to die anyway, rather than rely on chance alone there.

That's what Tanner herself would have done in her friend's shoes, at least.

Or maybe Carrie had come to the interrogation room to keep up appearances, only for Silus to be in a chatty mood. What had he revealed, if anything, that was so important he was shut up? But if that was the case, wouldn't the recorder be switched on?

She saw the ventilation grill high on the wall behind the bolted chair as she rose to her feet, and the half-forgotten memory clicked into clarity.

"White, a chair."

"Ma'am? There's one already here."

"Then bring another," she hissed. He hesitated, then scampered into the other room. He returned moments later with Carrie's chair, his rifle slung at one side.

She grabbed it from him and pushed it against the wall, then unsheathed her Ka-bar. White stepped back, but Tanner had eyes only for the grill and the screws bolting it shut. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she unscrewed each with her knife. The green blipping light on the other side of the grill urged her on.

"What's that, ma'am? Have you found something?" White asked, peering up from behind her as the grill clattered to the floor. Tanner grabbed the blocky shape inside, bringing it up to her face. The tape inside was still spinning and a timer glowed green on a small screen above. She unplugged the feeding cable from the small fission battery hidden deeper into the vent and climbed down.

"It's a backup recorder," she told him. Carrie had mentioned setting up one months before, after the main equipment acted up one time too many during a routine check-up. She should have remembered sooner.

"Captain's orders are to bring anything new to him, ma'am."

"And we will. But first, I want to check if it's anything worth his time." He looked unsure, so Tanner put a hand on his shoulder. "It'll only take a few minutes, and Captain Curtis is busy enough without wasting his time on a false lead. Do me a favor and keep an eye on Private Crenshaw, will you? He can't be feeling well."

White made a face but complied. Back at the holo-recorder, Tanner removed her helmet and picked up a pair of headphones, scrunching her face at the stench of unfiltered air. She slotted the holotape into the main recorder and after checking the clock and doing some quick math, she set it to start shortly before the time the bomb in the monorail car went off, and hit play.

 _"- you know, Lieutenant, you keep some interesting company."_

That was Silus alright, but his words sounded like he was speaking from a great distance, and with a slight echo to boot. Still holding her knife, Tanner rested her palms against the table the recorder was on, straining to catch every word.

 _"Some strapping Californian boy caught your fancy, Silus? I can arrange something for you. It must be hard with your hands chained, all alone."_

She closed her eyes at Carrie's voice, chuckling quietly. She'd never told her how much she appreciated her crass humor.

 _"Your rabble is only good for a collar around their neck. Have I ever told you -"_

 _"You have, Silus. It bored me to tears the first time. If I hear it again, I may call in the Iron Guardsmen for a spell of fun with you, then kick back and enjoy the show."_

Tanner listened closely for any sign of stress in Carrie's voice, any crack, but she sounded like her usual dismissive interrogator persona.

 _"Your NCR has rules to protect prisoners, woman. Your threats are wind."_

 _"It's too bad I switched off the recorder today. They had friends at Nelson and Searchlight, so they won't mind. Ever tried waterboarding?"_

Tanner sighed. So that was why. Carrie had grown tired of playing by the Colonel's rules, and brought out the Office's handbook.

The recording was silent for a bit. Tanner glanced at the door and could just make out the profile of Cpl. White standing guard. He was talking with Crenshaw, but she couldn't make out the words.

 _"A children's trick, but I'm getting tired of your bluster. There's a Legion spy, here at McCarran. A high-ranking Frumentarius, and one of Inculta's best. Name's Picus."_

Tanner drew a sharp breath and turned to the recorder, but then Carrie was speaking again.

 _"Tell me something I don't know, Silus."_

The Centurion snorted. _"He's a fanatic who trains more fanatics. I don't know what names he goes under these days, but we came from the same tribe. I'd recognize his voice anywhere, and if you don't stop him, he's going to kill me. He won't tolerate a deserter. He's an officer here. Higher than you, at the very least."_

 _"And how's that?"_

 _"Because just yesterday I heard you salute him like the good guard bitch you are."_

 _"Yesterday? There was only -"_ The distant rattle of the security door sliding into the floor and the louder boom of an explosion drowned Carrie's next words, then, _"Private, what the hell are you doing?!"_

 _"True to Caesar."_

Rifle discharges echoed in Tanner's ears. Her heart pumped in her ears as she caught a vague reflection on the holo recorder's plastic case.

She threw herself to the side and flinched as a bullet ricocheted off her armored back. She spun, reversing her grip on the knife to throw it, her other hand going to the revolver at her hip. The knife found its mark in Private Crenshaw's leg, but he kept unloading bullet after bullet into the holo-recorder.

By the time she hit the ground, she'd lined up her shots. Corporal White was shouting at Crenshaw to stand down, but the Private had tucked the muzzle of his M16A1 under his chin, his hands steady and his eyes euphoric.

"Davey, down to the fuckin' ground! Now!"

Tanner didn't waste breath and shot him in the shins.

Crenshaw's sneer of burning hate morphed into gasping agony. He squeezed the trigger as he fell, but the bullet hit the ceiling. Tanner moved, covering the few feet separating them as Crenshaw turned his sidearm against himself, blood pooling around his shattered legs.

"Don't shoot!" she shouted at him and White both as she pounced.

"True to Caesar!" Crenshaw yelled as her fingers closed around his wrist, and then he fired.

* * *

"Private Crenshaw destroyed the recording to cover for someone," she said, later. "A male officer, higher in rank than Lieutenant Boyd. Crenshaw killed her and Silus and then tried to frame her because Silus had recognized who the spy was."

And whether by chance or not, Crenshaw had timed it with the monorail leaving the station, counting on the explosion and ensuing chaos to muffle his handiwork.

She was standing at attention in Colonel Hsu's office, a task not made easy by the growing bruise on her back. President Kimball's portrait on the wall couldn't match the Shi officer's stoic expression, even marred by dark bags and new lines as it was. A ham radio dominated his desk, a direct, secured line to the Dam no doubt. She didn't envy him his position as General Oliver's latest chew toy, even if she'd put him in that situation.

Of all things, however, the oddest was not seeing a cup of tea on his desk, even gone cold and untouched. She'd heard the colonel had ordered the OSI to check all the stocked water at the base for signs of poison. Hildern would no doubt grumble about it to no end, but that wasn't Tanner's concern.

"You're saying that anyone in my senior staff may be compromised."

"Yessir. Private Crenshaw was on guard duty at the interrogation rooms all day yesterday. Alone. We could ask the sentries patrolling the first-floor gallery if they saw anyone, but half the senior officers have their rooms in that wing of the terminal."

And with only the rank to go on to identify Picus, no Captain or Major at McCarran was beyond scrutiny or above suspicion. That doubt alone was crippling. It had been a while since the worst-case scenarios, the bread-and-butter of the military, had been exceeded to such an extent.

 _"When it rains, it pours, eh?"_ Garret would say.

Colonel Hsu sighed, closing his eyes briefly. "At least Boyd's reputation has been cleared. That's something. I'll remove Curtis from the investigation and ask high command for replacement officers, but I can't quarantine the entire chain of command for the moment."

"Sir, permission to speak freely?"

"You won't lead the investigation, Ranger," Hsu said, firm if not unkindly. "You did good today, but you were too close to Lieutenant Boyd to remain impartial, and you failed to find the mole before the monorail was destroyed." Anger flared in her at the neutrality of his tone. "I need fresh eyes on this, and Dr. Hildern has requested your services again."

This time, Tanner saluted at the dismissal and marched out of the office, head held high even if her gut burned. She drew to a sudden halt, however, when she saw the Canuck burnbag waiting for her with the Colonel's guards, who had disarmed her before entering. Even with his helmet on, there was nobody else Garret's size in the entire Ranger Corps.

"I heard what happened," he said once she'd armed up again and they were out of earshot. The glares of the Colonel's guards bore into her back.

Garret's voice was like wet gravel. "I'm sorry about Carrie."

She nodded, appreciating that he didn't offer empty proformas. "Did you go to see Dr. Gunnarson?"

"I'm alright for now. There's too much work to do."

"You don't sound alright, Garret."

"And you're bottling everything up again, eh?" He was studying her, but she didn't meet the eyes behind his red lenses. She didn't want to see the judgment there. Not from him. "Have you ever stopped once since the Morales died?"

She shrugged, killing any emotion in her voice. "Too much work to do."

"Cheeky brat," he sighed. "You can't go on like this without snapping. You know it."

"Add it to the list of things I didn't learn well enough."

He stiffened at that and her lips pursed with belated guilt, but the words were out and silence reigned between them for the rest of their short walk. It was the hour of the wolf, as Garret once called it, and even with the reinforced patrols, the terminal was quite large. They only crossed a patrol of two soldiers on a cigarette break, but their eyes burned brighter than their smokes as she passed.

She memorized their faces and watched their hands until a turn in the corridor hid them from view, but they never made a move. Garret said nothing, even if she could tell he'd been ready to intervene at a moment's notice. He ground to a halt when he saw the Iron Guardsmen standing watch at the entrance of the corridor to the OSI's offices.

"Who told you I was with the Office?" she asked him, still staring ahead.

He didn't answer for a long moment, then, "I was given a note. Typed, no signature." His chuckle was like the rattle of breaking glass. "I really didn't want to believe it. Must have gone blind sometime in the past few years. Cataracts, eh?"

Her heart squeezed in her chest, but she forced herself to ignore it by remembering that she was doing all of this for him. So that he could live what years he had left in peace, rather than rot and die in some forgotten corner of the desert.

"Who delivered it?"

"Same guy who killed Carrie. Private Crenshaw."

Another lead ending at the same dead body. The name Picus burned in her thoughts, feeding the fire in her gut anew.

"Take care, Canuck."

He didn't reply, but she felt his eyes on the back of her head until the door swung closed behind her.

* * *

Dr. Hildern's two closest assistants were running tests on some new gizmo as she passed through the labs. Delivered by Captain Granite, the Major's son, and a squad of Guard of Iron the day before, one of the guards in the lab informed her. The putrid-looking, reddish-brown powder sealed in several canisters had the scientists' panties twisted into so many knots of excitement.

The whole scene left her with a queasy feeling in her stomach. Was that some new weapon? A new bunker-breaker? She pushed the thoughts aside and knocked on Dr. Hildern's door.

The word ' _Alcibiades'_ was stamped over the manila folder Dr. Hildern placed before her. His office doubled as a spare archive and private radio station for the local branch of the OSI. As far as she knew, it was also the room most often swept for listening devices in the entire base.

"Read," Dr. Hildern commanded before lighting his pipe, but she found that there was very little to read. Most pages were heavily redacted in black, leaving only choice sentences and names here and there.

 _'Elijah'_ was one such name. _'Clanden'_ , another. There was enough legible and implied for her to piece together that the latter must be the third Office Agent in the Mojave, the elusive individual on some long-term mission Hildern was always tight-lipped about.

She flipped through the document and stopped at the last two pages. These were barely redacted, every sentence reeking of Hildern's condescension.

"If it was up to me, you wouldn't be privy to any of this, Agent Tanner," he said after she'd finished. "You're a failure, a disgrace that put our entire work here at risk. You had one job, and you failed. The President could have been on the monorail. On top of that, you even lost our only lead on House's Enclave pet. Something the General himself was very interested in." Hildern's face was a study of distaste that poorly hid his frustration. "But with personnel as limited as it is, you're the only remotely acceptable Agent for the job. Did you understand what is written there, at least?"

She nodded, keeping a biting response in check by imagining him choking on his pipe. "Major Granite discovered an abandoned Brotherhood bunker in the no-man's land between Camp Forlorn Hope and Nelson. There, he discovered the approximate coordinates for the Mojave Chapter's designated fallback base, codename Hidden Valley. It's somewhere in the mountains west of Helios One."

She didn't ask what else Major Granite had found there, but she was sure the red powder was among it. And there had been one Elijah whose name was infamous in Office circles, the dreaded Brotherhood Elder who'd fought Skynet calculation by calculation and severely damaged the AI during Operation Sunburst. His body had never been identified among the fallen.

"You managed that, at least " Hildern snapped the folder closed and locked it into a drawer. "Scout out the area and bring back evidence that the Brotherhood's remnants are cowering there. Operation _Alcibiades_ depends on it."

She was idly curious about the name. It sounded like some reference dug out from some dirty corner of history by the ex-Follower or one of his cronies to try and impress the General, or flaunt their culture.

The Brotherhood's remaining numbers concerned her little. The last estimates had the Mojave Chapter numbering maybe twenty combat effective personnel, with maybe twice that number between scribes and minors. Even with Skynet damaged and repelled during the tail-end of Sunburst, the General had been his zealous self, and only a few had managed to break through the encirclement and disappear among the hills and mesas.

If she played it carefully, they'd not even know she was there.

"And then? Will the General deal with them?"

"The Mojave Chapter are small fries, now that we have High Elder Maxson," Hildern scoffed, puffing on his pipe like it had been him who sieged and broke Lost Hills. "But they're out of the way. No one will notice if they disappear. They are perfect guinea pigs."

"For the powder?"

He frowned, then chuckled, full of derision. "That's above your pay grade. Just know that this war may not last much longer." She leaned forward, but Hildern just smirked. "For now, keep your head on the mission: this is your last chance, Agent Tanner. Do not disappoint the General again."


End file.
